Page 32 of Forged in Fire

I move to the weapons cache. Strip and clean my rifle. Action smooth, familiar. The ritual should steady me. Should give my mind something concrete to process besides the magnitude of what I’ve just done.

Still nothing.

I check ammunition stores. Inventory medical supplies. Test backup communications. All of it pointless busywork, desperate attempts to feel normal when everything has shifted off its axis.

When I’ve run out of tasks, I find myself standing beside the couch.

Looking at her.

Really looking.

Jesus Christ.

She’s beautiful. Not the artificial perfection of the women who usually cross my path—escorts and socialites with surgically enhanced features and calculated smiles. This is something different. Something real.

High cheekbones that seem too pale right now. Full lips slightly parted in unconsciousness. Long lashes dark against pale skin. That impossible burnished hair spread across the couch cushions like liquid flame.

And those eyes, hidden now but burned into my memory. Eyes that looked at me and saw straight through every defense I’ve built.

My chest tightens. Fire pulses under my skin in rhythm with her breathing.

This is insane.

I’m a professional killer. I’ve eliminated targets without a second thought, completed contracts that would give normal people nightmares for decades. I don’t kidnap random bystanders. Don’t get emotionally compromised by beautiful women.

Don’t feel like my world just shifted on its foundations because of one accidental encounter.

A vibration from nearby catches my attention. The secure phone on the nearby table is pulsing to life.

The call I’ve been dreading.

Time to face the music.

“This is Barlowe.” My voice carries no hint of the turmoil inside me.

“Mission status.” Veyra’s voice is curt. No social niceties. Just flat demand for information that could end my career.

Or my life.

“Primary target escaped,” I force the words out. “Complications during execution.”

Silence stretches across the connection. I count my heartbeats. Seven. Eight. Nine.

I swear I hear a muffled curse.

“Explain.”

“Target wasn’t alone. There was a civilian on scene—she walked into a trap. I had to intervene or watch her die.”

“You intervened.” Not a question. Statement heavy with implications.

“Affirmative.”

“Instead of completing your primary objective.” Each syllable is a nail in my professional coffin.

“The target escaped during civilian extraction. The situation became untenable.” The lie burns my throat. “I made a judgment call.”

More silence. Typing in the background. Data being accessed. Cross-referenced.