Page 17 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

Thatcher

“Focus, man, focus,” I mutter under my breath, trying to wrestle down the memory of Allie’s lips on mine.

In the last several years running this business, I’ve never been tempted by one of my clients.

Never.

But Allie is different.

The dashboard under my fingertips turns into an impromptu drum, each tap a desperate attempt to steer my thoughts back to the mission.

That’s what matters.

Not the fact that my heart’s still doing a stupid little tap dance on top of my rib cage.

The stakeout.

Hunter and I are here in the car, watching this damn house for signs of Drakon while Griffin watched Duke for me.

He knows that I won’t rest until I see with my own eyes what Hunter witnessed.

“Will you quit that?” Hunter grumbles from the driver’s seat, his eyes never leaving the laptop screen.

It’s like he’s got ice in his veins, all cool and collected while I’m over here simmering in my own personal chaos stew .

“Sorry,” I grunt, though I’m not really.

My fingers halt their dance, but it’s like they’re itching for something to do, anything to keep them—and me—from unraveling completely.

Hunter’s hands glide over the keys with surgical precision, the soft clicks punctuating the silence.

He’s setting up our makeshift command center, ready to jam the cell towers again for this house so that Drakon’s cronies can’t take or make calls from the inside while we’re here to watch.

The only space that will be able to receive or make a call or text will be in the yard out front.

Hopefully it will flush them out again and we’ll hear more intel.

We have bugs set up all over the area surrounding the house.

If there’s a call that happens outside of those walls, we’ll hear it.

But unfortunately, it would be too suspicious to continuously jam the signal.

We have to be strategic and cautious about how often we do this.

“Jammer’s set,” he announces, a hint of satisfaction in his voice as if he’s personally sticking it to every cell tower in a ten-mile radius.

“Good.” That’s all I manage to squeeze out through lips that still tingle from Allie’s kiss.

What’s wrong with me?

Since when does Thatcher Bryant get distracted by a woman during a high-stakes operation?

The last time it happened, I lost her…

Never again .

I swallow a gulp of tepid coffee from my to-go cup.

I steal a glance at Hunter, taking in his unflappable demeanor.

His scars, like mine, tell tales of close calls and even closer shaves with death.

The guy’s a fortress.

Me?

Right now, I feel about as solid as a house of cards in a tornado .

“Everything okay?” Hunter’s voice cuts through my internal monologue, sharp and probing.

“Never better,” I lie smoothly, snapping back to attention.

“Let’s just get this done.”

A nod is his only reply, and we both settle back into our roles.

Hunter, the implacable muscle, under-the-radar spy, and me, the guy who’s supposed to be leading this circus.

Tonight, we dance with danger.

But dammit if part of me isn’t dancing with the memory of Allie instead.

Two hours pass and the silence in the car wraps around me like a thick blanket, stifling and relentless.

The only interruptions are the soft rustlings of leaves brushing against each other outside—nature’s whispers reminding me that the world is still turning, despite the stillness in our little bubble of surveillance.

My fingers have stopped their impatient drumming, now gripping the armrest with a white-knuckled intensity.

Eyes prowling the shadows that stretch across the dimly lit street, I can almost feel the darkness breathing, every corner holding a secret, every whisper of movement a potential threat.

My pulse ticks up a notch with every passing minute, a silent marking of time in the absence of conversation.

A breeze filters lazily through our barely cracked window, and with it comes another flash of memory from this afternoon, unbidden and unwelcome.

Allie’s laughter, light and carefree as it dances through my head, her hands gentle as they smooth over Duke’s hair, tucking a rebellious curl behind his ear.

And the way Duke looked up at her, with wide, loving eyes.

My son has no mother.

He has no mother because of careless mistakes I made in my career.

And Allie provided him with a flicker of tender maternal warmth that has no business creeping into my thoughts right now.

I need to focus.

I shove the image of her smile to the darkest corners of my mind.

I inhale deeply, the cool air filling my lungs, carrying with it the scent of asphalt and the faintest hint of rain on the horizon.

Tonight has to be all about the mission.

Protect, serve, avenge.

Those aren’t just words—they’re the code that etches itself into every scar I carry, every line burrowed in my skin.

For Duke, for the ghost of a life I once thought I’d have, for the shadow of a woman who slipped through my defenses without even trying—I will see this through.

Drakon won’t know what hit him.

“Look sharp,” Hunter whispers.

“I think we hooked a fish.”

Light spills onto the front stoop as the door opens.

A shadow peels itself from the dimly lit concrete, taking the shape of a man as he steps out onto the front lawn of the house, holding his phone out as if he’s seeking a signal.

That’s right, motherfucker.

Walk right into our trap.

He’s firing off in Russian, a string of curse words, his voice a hasty patter that sends my pulse into overdrive.

My brain sifts through the static of my rusty language skills.

Even though it’s been a few years since I brushed up on my Russian, I can still understand almost every word he’s saying.

I lean in closer to the windshield, listening as Hunter taps on his laptop, hitting record on our bugs.

“Here we go,” I mutter, barely audible.

Hunter’s fingers paused their dance over the laptop keys as he tunes his ear to the conversation outside, the glow from his screen casting ghostly shadows across his concentrating face.

“Yes, yes,” the man says in Russian.

“Finally. Sorry about that, boss.”

Boss.

Does that mean he’s on the phone with Drakon right now?

It isn’t until my lungs start burning that I realize I’m holding my breath.

“The shipment arrived Sunday,” he continues.

“Mostly good, mostly good. We had to take care of the not-so-good stock, of course.”

Shipment.

Drugs, most likely.

Drakon had been dealing in drugs for years.

In his family business, he handled the drugs and his brother ran the guns.

Granted, since we took down his brother several years ago, intel tells us Drakon likely took over for the gun running, too.

“I assure you, Drakon, it won’t happen again.”

“Drakon,” I whisper sharply, my eyes not leaving the mysterious figure.

The name tastes like danger on my tongue, and the familiar surge of adrenaline floods my veins.

I haven’t felt that jolt of excitement in years.

Not since our mission ended six years ago.

But this is it—the break in the case we’ve been grinding our gears over for months…

years, even.

Since my wife’s death.

“RS527.” The man’s voice cuts through the silence with the precision of a sniper’s shot.

“Thirteen hundred hours.”

“RS527 at thirteen hundred hours,” I repeat.

“What’s that?”

Hunter shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.

“Dunno,” he replies, fingers flying across the keyboard.

“Code?”

“No shit, but code for what?”

His gaze doesn’t waver but the air between us crackles with tension.

RS527 at thirteen hundred hours.

“Check flight numbers out of Russia,” I say.

Hunter doesn’t respond to me, but I know he’s heard me based on the fast movement of his fingers typing.

“Nothing with that code going in or out of Russia.”

Dammit.

“What about flights out of Turkey or Georgia?”

This time, Hunter acknowledges me with one single nod of his head.

A minute passes when Hunter says, “Bingo. Flight out of Kazakhstan at 13:05 next Monday with the flight code RS527. It lands in JFK the following morning.”

I clamp my hand onto Hunter’s shoulder.

Fuck yes.

This.

This is the kind of intel that can turn a stakeout into a full-blown operation.

“We need the flight manifest for that flight. I doubt Drakon is flying under his real name.”

“Already on it.”

With each beat of my heart, the burden of responsibility settles deeper on my shoulders.

For Jenna, for Duke, for justice—failure isn’t an option.

And we’re closer than we’ve ever been before.

In one week, Drakon will be back in the States and we can get him.

No, we will get him.

“ Poka ,” the man says into the phone.

“ Do skorogo .”

“ Do Skorogo … See you soon,” I whisper as the man hangs up the phone.

“We got him,” Hunter whispers as a small smile splays on his mouth.

“Not yet, we don’t. But soon.”

The door to the house flies open with a vengeance moments after the man hangs up.

A hulking figure storms out.

“Oh shit,” Hunter whispers.

It’s Drakon’s right-hand man, a lump of muscle and menace known to us only as Ispolnitel…

the Enforcer.

Hunter and I don’t need to speak; our eyes meet for a split-second—his icy calm a stark contrast to the burning urgency in mine—and then we are both ducking, our heads barely visible above the dashboard; just enough that we can both still see a little of what’s going on.

His laptop, still recording their conversation.

“Inside, you fucking maggot!” he bellows in Russian, his voice a guttural growl that sends shivers down the darkest alleyways.

Our unknowing informant, a slip of a man in comparison, recoils as if slapped by the sound alone.

The informant, a jittery shadow against the faint glow of a streetlight, tries to placate the Enforcer with frantic gestures, his words tripping over one another in haste.

But the Enforcer’s having none of it, closing in on the smaller man with the measured steps of a predator.

My fingers flex involuntarily and I put a hand on the handle of my gun, sheathed around my hip.

Years of training screams at me to do something, yet I know that here, there’s nothing I can do.

We’re playing the most dangerous game of hide-and-seek imaginable and we don’t even have our credentials anymore to act on it if things do go south.

The silence is a live wire, snapping with tension so thick I can practically taste it.

We’ve seen the Enforcer before.

He’s the muscle.

The one who carries out all the dirty work for the man who reaps the benefits.

“Your recklessness could compromise everything.” The Enforcer’s snarl slices through the tension.

He’s inches from the informant now, a looming threat against the backdrop of the quiet, unsuspecting street.

The air, thick with danger, vibrates with the current of their confrontation.

I hold my breath, muscles wound tight as springs.

Hunter remains still beside me, a silent statue, his discipline a lesson in restraint .

“Sorry, sorry,” the informant whimpers, his back nearly bending double in his eagerness to appease.

“ Ispolnitel, there was no signal in the house and Drakon needed his update?—”

The Enforcer’s hand twitches at his side.

“No,” I whisper as the sharp crack of a gunshot shatters the night.

I swallow hard as the informant crumples to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

Hunter doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to breathe, but his hands clench white-knuckled on the edges of his laptop.

The world outside turns into a still-life painting, except for the thin wisp of smoke curling from the barrel of the Enforcer’s gun.

We’re statues, Hunter and I, while my heart hammers against my ribs like it wants to break out.

We can’t drive away yet.

We have to wait long enough that no one suspects us of seeing or hearing anything.

The Enforcer casts a quick glance around, tucking his gun back into the waist of his pants before he ducks back into the shadow of the building.

Like nothing happened.

Like a man’s life hasn’t been snuffed out right before our eyes.

“Thatcher?” Hunter’s voice is barely audible, but it cuts through the shock cocooning me.

“Give it a minute,” I rasp out, my eyes glued to the door where the Enforcer disappeared.

My ears ring with the echo of that single shot, and every instinct screams for me to jump out, to do something.

But the job is clear—stay hidden, stay alive.

Two more men come scrambling out the front door and grab the informant’s body, quickly dragging him inside.

I think of Duke’s sweet laughter.

Of how he can’t seem to eat chocolate without getting half of it on his face.

I think of Allie’s smile.

Of the way her nose crinkles when she giggles.

Drakon and the Enforcer wouldn’t hesitate to take out Duke or Allie in a heartbeat.

I can’t afford to break cover—not now, not yet.

The street has gone quiet again.

Hunter and I don’t dare move until we’re certain the Enforcer isn’t coming back for an encore.

“Close,” Hunter mutters, his voice so low it’s nearly swallowed by the night.

“Too close.” My words are a hoarse whisper, my throat tight with the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

Every cell in my body is alive, acutely aware that the difference between life and death tonight has been mere seconds—a chilling reminder of what’s at stake.

“We don’t have to do this,” Hunter says, his eyes scanning the dark alleyways as we slowly start to sit back up.

“We can turn over our evidence to the new team. Our old boss. And let them handle it. Your name…Duke’s name…never has to cross their path.”

“No,” I shoot back.

“This is the man who took my wife from me. If anyone takes him down…it’s me.” I blink, feeling myself come back down from the adrenaline of the scene before us.

“But you and Griff don’t have to do this. You’re retired. This isn’t your fight?—”

Hunter’s hand clamps onto my shoulder, concern seeping through his usually stoic demeanor.

“Your fight is our fight, brother. Let’s end this,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the resolve in his voice.

Hunter puts away his equipment, then turns on the car and pulls slowly away from the neighborhood, leaving the horrific scene we witnessed behind.

It’s far from the worst thing we’ve seen in our days on the force.

But we’ve been out for a few years.

And seeing it a few neighborhoods away from our own community is a far cry from seeing it in the middle of a war-torn country.

It’s literally hitting too close to home.

“I think I should send Duke to stay with Jenna’s sister for a while. Until this is over,” I confess, the words tasting bitter as they leave my lips.

And yet, I know it’s the right thing.

Drakon is too close.

And the more we close in on him, the more danger Duke is in.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Hunter reassures me, his eyes not leaving the road.

“And I bet Griffin can send his brother to stay with them until this is over, too.”

That’s a good idea.

Griff’s brother is a Green Beret and has almost as much training as we do.

Outside of Hunter and Griffin, he’s the next person I trust with my son’s life.

“It’s just temporary,” Hunter adds.

“Keeps him safe while we wrap up this mess.”

“Temporary,” I echo, the word feeling hollow.

But Hunter is right.

In my gut, I know keeping Duke out of Drakon’s crosshairs is nonnegotiable.

The kid has been through enough for a lifetime already.

“Thatch,” Hunter says, snapping me away from my roaming thoughts.

“If we’re doing this as soon as next week, then you’ve got to wrap up the Larsen file. Find her a match. Get her out of our hair so we can focus on what’s really important.”

“Right,” I say, my resolve crystallizing like ice.

Find Allie a match.

A match that isn’t me.

Someone safe.

Someone who loves tennis and dogs and will go to dinner with her parents at their golf club.

“Time to end this,” I declare, and the night seems to hold its breath.

“End it we will,” Hunter replies with a nod, his silhouette blending into the dark as we make our way back to the mission.

The idea of facing down Drakon sends a jolt of electricity through me.

It’s more than revenge; it’s a promise to protect what’s left of my family.

Drakon is out there, a specter in the night…

but not for long.

I’m coming for him.

And God help anyone who stands in my way.