Page 5 of Code Name: Reaper (K19 Allied Intelligence Team Two #5)

REAPER

W hat the hell had just happened?

I stayed close to the wall as we crept farther into the tunnels, listening to the Russian voices fade as the search team moved past our hiding spot. My heart hammered against my ribs, but not from the adrenaline of nearly getting killed. No, this was entirely different. Amaryllis had kissed me too.

With death breathing down our necks, her hands had fisted in my jacket, her body had pressed against mine, and for those few seconds, the world had narrowed to her mouth and the way she’d responded to my touch.

She’d said she hated me, then kissed me like her life depended on it.

The contradiction made my head spin. I could still taste her on my lips, still feel the way she’d melted into me before the ice maven I knew returned. What did she hate? Me or the fact that she wanted it as much as I had?

Behind me, I heard her short, controlled bursts of breath that told me she was fighting for composure. Good. At least I wasn’t the only one rattled.

Focus. Mission first, sort out the rest later.

I waited another thirty seconds, then motioned for her to follow around the next bend. As we squeezed through another narrow passage, my body was hyperaware of every time she brushed against me.

We emerged from the tunnel system onto the dark Berlin streets.

Streetlights cast long shadows across empty sidewalks, and the distant hum of late-night traffic echoed off concrete buildings.

The city had that hollow quality of deep night, when most people were asleep, save for the insomniacs and shift workers still moving through Kreuzberg’s urban maze.

Amaryllis avoided eye contact as she stepped out beside me. She crossed her arms over her chest, as if she could create a physical barrier even though we stood only inches apart.

The movement frustrated me more than it should have. One minute, she was in my arms; the next, she’d transformed into ice.

I scanned the street for threats while fighting the urge to stare at her mouth. It was empty except for a delivery truck that rumbled down a parallel street. We needed to move, get transportation, and put space between us and the safe house in advance of the Russians expanding their search grid.

“We need a vehicle.”

She moved toward a compact parked at the curb. “There.”

“We’re not stealing another one.”

Amaryllis raised a brow. “Another? Don’t tell me the holier-than-thou Reaper took something that didn’t belong to him.” The challenge in her voice brought a strange sense of relief. This, I could handle. Arguing was familiar territory.

“We’ll take the train,” I suggested.

“Slower.”

“Safer.”

“Speed matters more than safety right now.”

The woman who’d escaped a kill team minutes ago was ready to hot-wire a car like it was any other average day. Part of me was impressed. The other part wanted to shake her until she showed some sense of self-preservation.

“We need to stay mobile,” she continued, splitting her attention between me and scanning for threats.

“We find a safe house, regroup, and get proper support.”

“We’re not calling in the cavalry for a simple extraction.”

“Simple?” The word came out sharper than I’d intended. “We fought our way out of a coordinated breach with multiple hostiles carrying automatic weapons. In what universe is that simple?”

She shot me a look that could have melted steel. “The universe where I’ve been handling myself perfectly fine for nine days without your help.”

There it was. The independence thing again. Her default response to any situation was to handle it alone, trust no one, and rely on herself. I recognized the pattern, even if I didn’t understand what had created it.

Before I could respond, my asset rounded the corner in the right make, model, and color sedan. Right on time. He jumped out and took off in the opposite direction without giving us the chance to thank or identify him.

“If you’d gone with my plan, we could’ve saved ten minutes,” Amaryllis muttered as we approached the car.

“Or gotten arrested.”

“I drive,” she said, trying to scoot around me.

“Like hell,” I shot at her.

“I know the area better.”

“My asset.”

We stared at each other. The same battle for control we’d been fighting since Montenegro, played out over who got behind the wheel.

But it felt different. Every interaction carried an undercurrent of tension that had nothing to do with mission security and everything to do with the way her lips had moved against mine.

When I got to the driver’s side first and climbed in, she retreated to the passenger side, then slammed the door harder than necessary.

The first hour passed in stilted conversation about routes and immediate security concerns.

She navigated while I drove, both of us maintaining a rigid separation despite the forced proximity.

But I noticed everything—the way she held her cell, how she shifted in her seat, the scent of her shampoo mixing with the adrenaline still coursing through my system.

The city gradually gave way to the countryside as we distanced ourselves from Berlin. Occasional headlights passed in the opposite direction, but mostly, we had the road to ourselves in the early morning hours.

“Head south at the next intersection.” She traced a route with her finger.

“Why south?”

“More options in that direction.”

“We need a safe house first. Somewhere to regroup.”

“We need to stay mobile.”

The same argument we’d been having since we met, only with different words. Her insistence on independence versus my preference for proper backup and resources.

“You can’t run forever,” I muttered.

“Watch me.”

I glanced at her profile, noting the stubborn set of her jaw. “This is bigger than what we can handle alone.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

Always we, I noticed. Even when she was pushing me away, rejecting help, and insisting she didn’t need anyone. Some part of her had already accepted that we were a team, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

We stopped for fuel an hour later at a twenty-four-hour station, the first real pause since our escape. Everything felt awkward—like if we dared look at each other, we’d both be forced to acknowledge that kiss.

While she went inside to get coffee, I sent a text to Blackjack with my coordinates and a request to find us somewhere safe to stop for a few hours.

I watched her through the convenience store window, studying the way she moved. Alert but not paranoid, competent without being showy. She caught me looking and turned away quickly, but not before I saw the heat flushing her cheeks. The same awareness that was driving me crazy.

“Don’t.”

The word came out of nowhere as we returned to the car.

My mouth gaped. “Don’t what?”

“Just don’t.”

I studied her, looking for clues about what she meant. Don’t mention the kiss? Don’t look at her like that? Don’t make this more complicated than it already was?

“Fine,” I said, though I had no idea what I’d agreed to.

Once on the road, we were forced to share intelligence.

Her intel about Prism’s surveillance network painted a picture of betrayal that went deeper than either of us had realized.

My reluctance to discuss Jekyll’s final words was obvious, but she didn’t push.

We were both keeping secrets, dancing around the implications of what we’d learned.

“We need more resources?—”

“Resources come with oversight. Oversight means compromise. Compromise means too much risk,” she clapped at me.

I understood her logic, even if I didn’t agree with it. Someone had burned her in the past—probably more than once—and now, she defaulted to isolation as a survival mechanism. The irony was that her independence made her more vulnerable, not less.

The safe house my brother had arranged was a small cottage in Konigstein, nothing fancy but secure. Dawn had started to hint at the eastern horizon as we pulled up and parked.

The moment we walked through the door, the arguments that had become second nature picked right back up. We spat at each other about perimeter checks, communication protocols, and watch schedules.

She moved toward the equipment. “I’ll handle the tech setup.”

“I’ve got it.”

“I’m better with electronics.”

“Says who?”

Irritation flashed on her face when she turned to me. “Says the person who’s been running solo missions for months.”

“Running from problems isn’t the same as solving them.”

Her expression shuttered at the harshness in my words and tone. “That isn’t what I meant, and you know it.” Her voice sounded deliberately flat. “I’ll check the perimeter.”

She was gone before I could argue. I stared at the empty doorway, wondering when everything had gotten so complicated.

A week ago, I’d been hunting for a missing operative.

Now, I was stuck in a safe house with a woman who made me question every decision I’d ever made about keeping my personal life and work separate.

By the time she returned inside, I’d set up the communication gear and completed a threat assessment on the property.

“Hungry?” I asked, more to break the silence than anything else.

She moved toward the small kitchen, opening cabinets and assessing what we had to work with. “I can make breakfast.”

“When’s the last time you actually cooked a meal?”

She shot me a look over her shoulder. “When’s the last time you prepared anything that wasn’t an MRE?”

“You think I can’t cook? I’ll show you.” God, I was tired of her assumptions about my capabilities. That I believed in getting support when needed didn’t mean I was helpless on my own.

I moved into the kitchen, claiming the territory. The area was small enough that she had to step away, but she didn’t retreat entirely. Instead, she leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and watched me work.

“The heat’s too high,” she muttered as the oil I’d poured into a pan popped.

“It’s fine.” I dumped the container of chopped vegetables I’d found in the refrigerator into it.

“You’re going to burn them.”