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I turned back, mind racing. “We need to send a message—through intermediaries, straight to the CIA. Let them know 77’s playing dirty on American soil.”
Ryker’s brows shot up. “Poke the bear?”
“End this,” I said, voice hard. “CIA doesn’t want a turf war here—nobody does. If we show 77’s crossing lines, they’ll pull back or get burned.”
Atlas nodded, slow. “Could work. Forces their hand without us going loud.”
Ryker snorted, shaking his head. “Or it lights us up like a Christmas tree. You think the CIA’s gonna send flowers? This’ll make Dominion a fucking beacon.”
“We’re already at war,” I said, leaning in, voice sure. “Might as well dive deep.”
Hallie Mae stayed quiet, eyes flicking between us, trusting the room but not shrinking.
Her faith—fragile, fierce—pushed me to get this right.
Ryker scrubbed his face, muttering a curse. “Fine. I’ll make the call. But you better be ready for the spotlight.”
“Always am,” I said, smirking, though my gut twisted—he wasn’t wrong. This was a long way from a bullet shot a mile out.
Atlas stood, hand on my shoulder. “I’ll handle security for her mom. Team in place within the hour.”
Ryker nodded, pulling his phone. “I’m on the call. Let’s move.”
The meeting broke, tension lingering like gunpowder, but we had a plan—rough, risky, ours.
I turned to Hallie Mae, her face pale but steady. “C’mon. We’ve got some time. Let’s eat.”
She followed as I led her to the kitchen—steel and black granite, the chef prepping for the crew.
I leaned in, murmured, “Pack a picnic. Something good—sandwiches, fruit, fresh shit. To-go.”
He nodded, no questions, and got to work.
Hallie Mae’s eyes widened, surprise breaking through her grief, and I grinned—her lips parting, soft and unguarded, hit me like a shot of bourbon.
“Full of surprises,” she said, a faint smile tugging her mouth.
“Stick around,” I said, winking, chest aching with how much I meant it.
The chef handed over a cooler—ice-packed, loaded—and I grabbed it, nodding to the stairs.
“Not outside?” she asked, brow quirking as we climbed.
“Nah,” I said, voice low, heat creeping in. “Food’s on ice for a reason.”
Her cheeks flushed, catching my tone, and she followed to my room, the door clicking shut.
The space was dark—cedar, leather, my bed unmade, her scent still haunting the sheets from last time.
She set her bag down, turned, and asked, “Picnic?”
I dropped the cooler, stepped close, voice rough. “Later. I need more of you … now.”
Her breath hitched, eyes darkening, and she didn’t pull back—met me head-on, bold as hell, fire in her that matched mine.
I kissed her—deep, desperate, teeth grazing her lip, tongue diving in like I could drink her whole.
She moaned, hands yanking my shirt up, nails raking me, sharp enough to sting, and I growled, loving her edge, her claim.