Page 9 of Code Name: Reaper (K19 Allied Intelligence Team Two #5)

REAPER

Y eah, I was an asshole. A fact that was confirmed when Amaryllis’ shock and dismay played out on her face. Like she’d swallowed a bug. I covered my mouth with my hand to hide my grin.

Before hiding behind her tablet like she so often did, she shot me a glare meant to kill. I should let her crawl into her cocoon and leave her be, but something in my gut told me to press on, keep the lines of communication open between us.

“Tell me what happened after you saw Aldrich and Vasiliev on that ridge, watching the villa burn.”

I was gifted with another glare, followed by a huff. Then she started talking. “I waited until they left, then raced from the woods to the parked vehicles belonging to those who’d been at the party. I took the first one I found with keys in it.”

“More grand theft auto.”

“More thinking on my feet to stay alive.” There was a sharp edge to her retort.

“Right. So, you didn’t return to the safe house. Where did you go instead?”

“Tivet. I abandoned the car, then made contact with an NSA asset, who gave me the coordinates and access code to a safe house.”

An asset. She wasn’t ready to trust me with a name, but that was okay. For now. “Go on.”

“I searched as much as I could on my cell, reviewing every piece of intelligence from the past month and cross-referencing communication timestamps with security breaches. The data that emerged made my blood run cold. The FSB was always one step ahead of us. The gala in Cape Idokopas, then again in Athens. Every safe house we’d used was compromised within days.

Every plan had required last-minute adjustments due to ‘unexpected FSB presence.’”

“Do you think it was Vasiliev’s doing?” I asked.

“And Prism’s.”

“What did you do?”

“I got lucky and was able to get a partial on FR—facial recognition. It wasn’t enough to see Aldrich clearly, but I knew it was her, and she was headed to London. I caught the next flight out I could.”

“Where was she traveling from?”

“Podgorica.”

“And you beat her there.” I grinned, feeling inexplicably proud of her.

“Not by much, but it was enough. I followed her to the Langham Hotel and settled into a café across the street with a clear view of the entrance. Oh, and on the way, I picked up a few electronics.”

“Do I want to know from whom?”

“I’m sure you do, but that’s another story.”

“Go on. I’m on pins and needles here.”

She stared at me as if she was gauging if I was being sarcastic. Then she continued. “For six hours, I kept watch as assets came and went. Then, at twenty-one hundred, everything changed.”

“What happened?”

“A black sedan pulled up to the hotel’s side entrance. I observed as Prism emerged from the door and got into the vehicle. No security detail, by the way.”

“Interesting.”

“I followed at a distance, weaving through London traffic as the sedan headed toward the industrial district?—”

“Hold up. Another stolen car?”

“No, not stolen.” When she sneered, I almost laughed. “I borrowed it—legitimately. Anyway, she finally stopped at an abandoned warehouse complex.”

“The exact type of place where traitors meet their handlers.”

“I parked around the corner, approached on foot, then climbed to a vantage point in an adjacent building. Through the grimy warehouse windows, I could see two figures in the dim interior.”

“Aldrich and Vasiliev, I presume.”

She raised her hands as if she were holding a camera. “Click, click, click, and I had my proof.”

“Too far to pick up audio, though.”

She smirked. “Have you forgotten who I work for?”

“Ah. Satellite?”

“Combined with a laser mic.”

When I said, “Good job,” she had the same bug-swallowing reaction she’d displayed earlier. “What about the correspondence where Prism suggested the elimination of Mercury as a necessary precaution?”

“I had help with that.”

She blurted it out too fast, like she’d revealed more than she intended. I waited for her to elaborate, watching her face change —the competent agent who’d just laid out hours of surveillance work vanished, replaced by someone who’d made a critical error in judgment.

Her shoulders drew inward, she closed off, and she studied her tablet with renewed focus that screamed “conversation over.” The walls were going up, reinforced with titanium.

Then she glanced at me again, like she was about to start an argument with me over something—anything—to deflect from whatever vulnerability she’d unintentionally shown. I recognized the behavior now. Every time she opened up, even slightly, she’d find a reason to get pissed at me.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Right. Because you always look like you want to start a fight over ‘nothing.’”

She raised her chin. “I don’t want to start a fight.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She turned to face me fully. “You know what? Maybe I do want to start a fight. At least then we’d be talking about something real, instead of dancing around whatever this is.”

“What, what is?”

“Forget it.”

Happy to have that conversation end, I turned my head and feigned sleep, occasionally glancing over at her to see what she was doing.

Her fingers moved across the tablet screen, but then went the opposite direction, as if she was rereading the page.

Her jaw was set in the stubborn line I was learning to recognize, and every few minutes, she’d glance my way to see if I was still pretending to be unconscious.

When I saw she’d finally appeared to drift off, I let go of some of my anxiety.

Why did it always have to be that way between us? Not that I wasn’t equally guilty of antagonizing her, like I had when I mentioned her dream. Which reminded me—other than with mortification, she hadn’t reacted to my question. No denial, no outrage, just embarrassment.

Which meant I’d been right. I had heard her moan my name through the walls. Not Reaper—Kingston. My actual name, spoken in a way that had made every nerve ending in my body come alive.

With my eyes closed, I let myself envision what that dream might have looked like.

Me undressing her slowly, taking my time with each piece of clothing until she was bare in front of me.

The kisses we’d share—hungry, desperate, and nothing like that brief moment of madness in the tunnel.

My inability to keep myself from taking one of her nipples in my mouth as soon as her breasts were exposed, the way she’d arch and make those same sounds I’d heard in the night.

How she’d writhe and moan, begging for more until I settled between her legs, using my mouth to drive her wild.

The taste of her, the way she’d come apart under my tongue while her hands fisted in my hair.

How she’d beg again when I slipped first one finger, then two, into her wetness, preparing her.

And finally, how it would feel when I was inside her—tight and hot and right, her legs wrapped around my waist as I moved within her.

I opened one eye and found her studying me, her gaze intense and unreadable. I grinned and winked, then shifted my body so I faced away from her. I heard her huff in frustration and smiled to myself.

When the plane’s engines changed pitch, signaling our descent into Gatwick, I forced myself into mission mode, pushing aside the fantasies that had made the flight both more bearable and infinitely more torturous.

As the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom with landing instructions, I was already mentally shifting gears to the debrief waiting at the estate, looking out the rain-streaked windows.

An SUV waited on the tarmac, keys in the ignition and an envelope on the passenger seat. I tore it open while Amaryllis put her bag on the rear seat.

Blackjack’s familiar scrawl covered a single sheet of paper— Arranged place for you both. Twenty minutes from main house. Address and key inside. Thought you’d want privacy. Enjoy.—B

Irritation flared hot and fast as I stared at the note.

What the hell was Blackjack thinking? There was plenty of room at the property—both in the main residence and the various guest quarters that dotted the grounds.

I’d figured she’d stay in one of those and I’d have my usual room, where I bunked with my brother when I was in the country.

Instead, we’d share a private place. Together. Like we were some romantic couple on a getaway.

Amaryllis settled into the passenger seat. “What’s the matter?”

I snapped at her harder than I’d meant to. “Nothing.”

“Right. Because you always look like you want to strangle someone over ‘nothing.’”

I shoved the note into my jacket pocket without giving her time to see it. No way in hell was I explaining my brother’s matchmaking attempts.

I considered going by the rental first, but changed my mind.

Maybe we should stay on the estate instead, and Blackjack could figure out what to do about the romantic gesture I’d never wanted him to make.

On the other hand, I innately knew Amaryllis would be more comfortable if she—we—were on our own.

The drive through Surrey’s countryside should have been calming. Rolling green hills stretched in every direction, dotted with sheep and divided by ancient stone walls. The kind of postcard-perfect English landscape that usually helped me decompress after difficult missions.

Instead, every mile increased the tension crackling between us in the SUV’s confined space. Amaryllis stared out the window, her body rigid, radiating displeasure. I could feel her irritation even without looking directly at her.

“You’re being an ass,” she finally said.

“Am I?”

“Yes. Ever since we got off the plane, you’ve been snapping at me for breathing.”

She wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “Maybe you’re too sensitive.”

“Or maybe you’re taking your frustration out on me because I’m an easy target.”

I scoffed. “You’re anything but easy, babe.”

“Blame me again, like any of this is my fault.”

I shot her a sideways look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You kissed me.”