Page 10

T hey were early. Not just a little early— way early. The table Chase had chosen offered a clean line of sight to the door and most of the surrounding street. He didn’t like surprises, especially not with the amount of heat pressing in around them these days.

So they waited. And waited.

Alyssa adjusted the scarf draped over her shoulders and shifted in her seat. She reached for her water again—the third time in as many minutes—then leaned across the table, her voice quiet and teasing. “I think you scared him off.”

Chase glanced up from scanning the passersby. “He might not show.”

“Yeah. If I were him, I wouldn’t come either. Have you seen how mean you look?”

He gave her a slow look. “I’ll show you mean.”

Her eyes widened just a touch, her smirk curving as her cheeks pinked. The chemistry between them, never fully gone, twisted into something warmer. She tried to play it off with a sip of water, but her foot nudged his under the table—and didn’t move away.

Chase didn’t get the chance to respond. A figure emerged from the crowd—a man older than most others making up the foot traffic, thin and wary. His eyes moved around the room quickly before they settled on Chase and Alyssa.

“That has to be him,” he murmured.

The interpreter hesitated at the edge of the table. “You are alone?”

“We are,” Chase said. “Come. Sit.”

He did, cautiously, darting looks everywhere. Alyssa offered him a smile—calming, diplomatic—and spoke gently. “Thank you for meeting us. We know this wasn’t easy.”

He folded his hands. “Before I speak, I must know…will you honor the promise?”

A flicker of unease passed between them. Chase leaned in. “What promise?”

The man’s gaze sharpened, but he shifted with unease. “They said…if I helped move the weapons—if I gave aid to the resistance—I would be given passage to the US. For my family and me.”

Alyssa’s brows furrowed. “You helped smuggle arms?”

“They were left on a dock.” His voice dropped, full of weary regret. “I turned a blind eye. It was all I was asked to do. Later, they returned the crates after distributing the contents to the resistance fighters.”

Chase frowned. “You were just a pass-through.”

The man nodded. “That is all. But then the others found out.”

Alyssa leaned forward. “The terrorists?”

“Yes.” His eyes dropped to his lap. “They planted a bomb. Said it was a warning. To stop the resistors who were fighting back against them.”

Chase’s hands curled slowly into fists. “What kind of warning takes out three people? A Red Cross worker and two civilians.”

The interpreter’s face tightened with pain. His breathing grew labored as if he was reliving the events of that day. “She wasn’t supposed to be there—Miriam Sheen, the director. I told her not to go to work that day.”

Chase held back a curse. “And she didn’t listen?”

“She was a good woman. Stubborn. I told her…don’t go. I knew something was planned, but I thought they would only destroy supplies. The crates. A message.” He swallowed. “She checked everything herself that day. It took longer without me. She was still inside when it exploded.”

A beat of silence stretched. Alyssa’s expression had softened, sympathy flickering in her eyes.

Chase broke the quiet. “Why didn’t you help her that day?”

“My daughter,” he whispered, voice watery. A tear broke free from the corner of his eye and trickled down his cheek. He swiped it away. “They took her. Said if I interfered again, she would die. I did everything I could to save her. I even contacted Miriam’s son, begged him to speak sense into her, but she didn’t listen to him either.” His voice cracked. “She didn’t know what was waiting.”

Alyssa’s fingers touched the edge of the table as if readying herself to rush away and help. “Where is your daughter now?”

“She lives,” Mahmoud said, though his eyes stayed haunted. “They released her. Eventually. But I lost everything else.”

Chase studied him—grief carved into the man’s face like an epitaph. No rehearsed act. Just guilt worn raw over time.

“You did what you could,” Alyssa said under her breath.

Mahmoud looked at her. “So, will you help me? Will the promise be honored?”

Chase gave her a glance—this wasn’t something he could guarantee. But Alyssa straightened in her chair, slipping into that steel-backed grace he was starting to admire far more than he probably should.

“I’ll make the calls,” she said. “Start the paperwork. If your story checks out, I’ll advocate for you.”

Hope sparked behind his eyes.

Their food arrived then—warm pita, grilled meats, a tomato-laced stew that sent steam twisting into the night air. They ate slowly, the three of them. Chase and Alyssa asked a few more careful questions—who had given him the instructions, where the crates had been stored, when the threats started.

All of it lined up.

And through the exchange, Chase watched Alyssa. The way she pressed the interpreter when needed but also offered comfort. The soft, murmured reassurances, the notes she committed to memory.

“Sir, you mentioned Ms. Sheen had a son.”

He dipped his head in a simple nod. “I never met him, but she spoke of him often. Before…” He broke off, struggling. “Before it happened, I sent her son an email from her computer. I tried everything to make sure she didn’t go to work that day.” He spread his hands in helplessness.

Alyssa flicked a glance at Chase. As soon as they got back to the safehouse, he would reach out to Dante to dig up what he could on Miriam Sheen’s son.

When the crowd got louder, he automatically shifted closer to Alyssa, prepared to throw himself in front of her, to take a bullet for her , if it came to that.

Beneath the table, her knee bumped his. He felt her heat through the thin layer of fabric between them.

She was a force—compassion wrapped around strategy. And every now and then, when she caught his eye, the fire between them flickered back to life.

When they finished, the interpreter placed his napkin on the table. “If there is more I can offer…”

“You’ve given us a good start,” Chase said. “We’ll take it from here.”

He nodded, then slipped away into the night, vanishing the way he came.

Chase and Alyssa remained seated.

“You think he’s telling the truth?” Her eyes fixed on the spot the man had disappeared into the shadows.

He nodded. “Too much detail. The guilt—that doesn’t fake well.”

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, looking up at the stars just starting to show through the smog-hazed sky. “That poor woman. After that warning, she must’ve known something was wrong. She just didn’t back down.”

“Sounds familiar.”

She cut him a look, but there was a smile in it. “You don’t scare me.”

He let the smirk play on his lips. “Yet.”

She laughed, and the pressure between them eased for the first time all evening. He reached over, swept a thumb over her cheek, lingering just a beat too long.

Her full lips parted in invitation. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

He leaned in, close enough to catch the shift in her breath. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Their eyes locked.

A car honked nearby. A baby cried somewhere on the next street. The city didn’t pause, didn’t care that something unspoken crackled in the narrow space between them.

She looked away first. “Let’s get back. We’ve got a hell of a trail to follow.”

Chase nodded, standing and offering her his hand.

As she slipped her fingers into his, he thought again about the interpreter’s story and the choices forced on a man who only wanted to protect his family.

It was a reminder—truth was always layered. Buried in guilt, wrapped in silence, shaded by grief.

But they were starting to unearth it.

He looked out at the pedestrians passing them on the street. That same prickle of being watched crawled up his nape. When he caught a man glancing their way, his legs bent as he prepared to chase him.

Lieutenant Rezvan.

Alyssa’s hand clamped on his thigh. “Julian—”

“I see him. It’s not a coincidence.”

“He’s watching us,” she murmured under her breath even though the man had vanished into the crowd.

Chase’s gut warned him the real danger hadn’t even begun yet.

Though he didn’t know what would come of this op—or what would happen with Alyssa after it was finished—there was one thing he trusted every day of his life.

His instincts.

* * * * *

The door to the safehouse clicked shut behind them, muffling the nighttime sounds of the street. Alyssa exhaled slowly, shrugging out of her scarf and lightweight linen jacket while Julian did a sweep of the space.

Dust and worry clung to her like a second skin, and no amount of fresh air would scrub away what they’d just learned from the interpreter over dinner.

She watched Julian from across the room, the way he moved with precise, quiet control. A subtle tremor stirred low in her belly.

The protector in him never clocked out. It was written in the angle of his shoulders, the way his hand kissed the small of her back as she passed him—like he couldn’t help it.

She needed that tonight.

Flopping onto the edge of the bed, she stared at the undecorated space but she wasn’t seeing the walls or furniture. She saw the tear dribbling from the corner of Mahmoud’s eye, inexorable.

Julian joined her, sitting close, his body radiating heat and strength. “You okay?”

She didn’t bother coming up with a lie. She just rubbed a fingertip between her brows and compressed her lips.

He touched her again, barely a skimming of his fingers over the crest of her cheek. But it was enough to keep her going.

“I’ll message Dante.”

She nodded.

He took out his phone, and on the secured line, typed out a summary of what they’d learned then hit send.

Neither of them spoke for a long minute.

“You think he’ll be able to verify any of it?” Her murmured question broke the moment.

Julian didn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifted her hand and turned it over in his. “If there’s proof to be found, Dante’ll find it.”

She nodded, absorbing the warmth of his touch and the subtle pressure of his thumb against her palm. Julian didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. That alone gave her something solid to hold on to.

Alyssa leaned into him, resting her temple against his shoulder. It didn’t matter that they were in a safehouse with dusty, worn-down floors and a mattress that was far thinner than what she was accustomed to. Right here, next to Julian, she felt safe.

Maybe safer than she had in years.

When no word immediately came back from Dante, Julian gave her a little nudge. “Why don’t you take a shower first?”

She did feel dusty. In the desert, every surface was coated in it. She even felt grit in her teeth when the wind blew.

With a nod, she pushed to her feet and went to shower. All the while, her mind was a riot of information. She never had trouble keeping the order of events straight, but there were many moving parts to keep track of. The commander and his assistant, who had obviously been sent to the restaurant to watch them. The Red Cross worker who lost her life because the terrorists coerced Mahmoud by kidnapping his daughter.

Then there was Julian. With every passing moment, she became more tangled up with the man. Her lover.

Funny thing was, despite the danger surrounding this op…she didn’t want it to end. Because that would mean walking away from him.

When she emerged from the bathroom wearing a loose T-shirt and light cotton pants, the fragrant scent of tea filled the air. Just then, Julian stepped into the bedroom, carrying a small wooden tray with two steaming cups.

His gaze traveled over her damp hair and body. From the gleam in his eyes, one would think she was wearing lingerie and not loose clothes.

He set the tray on the short table next to the bed. “It’s not much but—”

“There aren’t many supplies in the house,” she filled in.

His lips quirked, and those sexy dimples popped in his cheeks. “It’s some kind of tea. Smells a bit like gunpowder.”

“Probably a roasted oolong.” She drifted across the room and picked up a cup, letting the aromatic steam waft to her nose. “Mm. It is.” She took a sip and instantly felt calmer despite the fact they were waiting for Dante’s response about their findings.

Julian took a cup of tea and sank to the bed, watching her closely. The man was gorgeous—hard to look away from.

He seemed to be having the same trouble, his stare never moving from her as they drank. Though their silence was companionable, a charge ran beneath the surface, an undercurrent she was beginning to connect to this thing building between them.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed, loud and jolting. Her spine straightened instantly, heart knocking against her ribs. Julian was already on his feet, phone in hand.

Dante had replied.

He opened the message, scanning quickly.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

She gripped her fingers in her lap and watched his expression darken. “What is it?”

“Dante found the email thread. The interpreter wasn’t lying. He really did reach out to the woman’s son. And her son reached out to the embassy, saying that he had been warned of a bomb headed to the Red Cross.”

She blinked, his words running together.

Julian was quiet, processing just as fast. He kept reading aloud. “The embassy contacted the base. The officer in charge responded and said they were running a covert op to protect the negotiator”—he pinned his gaze on her—“meaning you, and free the hostages.”

Julian’s jaw flexed.

Folding forward, Alyssa dropped to the bed, arms wrapped around herself. “Julian, if I hadn’t been involved… If you weren’t trying to protect me…”

“You can’t think like that,” he said, but she saw it—how tightly he clenched his fists, the anger and frustration boiling behind his eyes.

She pressed a hand over her heart, her breath catching. “Her son… Where is he now?”

“Dante said he’s dead.”

Her head snapped toward him. Her expression felt brittle, like it would shatter like broken glass. “What?”

“Dante found record of his death. After his mom was killed, he…he took his own life.”

“Julian, it’s my fault.” Her voice cracked.

“No.” He was in front of her in an instant, kneeling at her feet, his hands cupping her thighs. “You stop that right now. You saved those hostages. Freed those people who were going through hell.”

“Another team from the base could have been sent to the Red Cross, but they weren’t. Any number of things could have prevented that. Wires crossed. The chain of command broken. Special ops teams don’t work for the government the same way the people on base do—but still, they could have gone to investigate the threat. But you’re not at fault.”

She shook her head, tears spilling. “But I feel like I am, Julian. Because I was the negotiator you were trying to protect, no one told Miriam Sheen not to go to work that day. She didn’t know the danger. Because your team wasn’t told to stop it, she died. And her son—he must’ve blamed himself. He couldn’t save her. And now…”

Julian surged up, gathering her into his arms and pulling her against his chest. She clung to him, sobs muffled in the crook of his neck, while he held her as if shielding her from everything—even her own guilt.

“You were following orders,” he said into her hair. “We both were. And we saved people that day. A whole group of hostages is alive because of you. That doesn’t erase the tragedy, but it matters. It has to matter.”

She nodded, trembling, and let him hold her until her breathing evened out. He rocked them slowly, one hand soothing down her spine, the other anchored at her waist. His heartbeat was steady beneath her cheek.

“I hate that it feels like we’re always chasing the truth.” Her whisper was heated and thick.

“Yeah. But you’re good at it.”

“So are you.”

Julian pulled back just enough to skim his thumb across her damp cheek. “You care so damn much it hurts you.”

“Because people like her matter. And her son—God, Julian, he was just trying to protect her.”

His dark eyes burned into hers. “Same way I’d do anything to protect you.”

The air went still between them, charged with something more than grief, more than mission focus. She looked up at him, eyes searching, heart wide open.

“You mean that?” she asked softly.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead he just leaned in, his lips pressing against her forehead with infinite tenderness. “You have no idea.”

Her chest ached in a whole different way now. Fierce. Real.

Julian eased them back onto the bed, not for anything more than comfort and closeness. They lay side by side, fingers intertwined, breathing together. The safehouse walls couldn’t keep the world out, but for this moment, they were each other’s shelter.

“Tomorrow,” he said, voice low and rough, “we’ll keep going. We’ll talk to the commander again if we have to. Chase down the rest of the names. We’ll figure out who’s responsible.”

“Together,” she whispered.

He turned his head to look at her, a faint smile on his features. The way he was looking at her right now made her long for this to be longer than right now—for it to be always.

Alyssa rested her cheek against his shoulder, letting his presence quiet the storm inside her. Julian wasn’t just her partner. He was her anchor.

And right now, she needed him more than ever.