Page 127 of Shadow Waltz
“She tried to have me killed to protect you from caring about me,” Ash said, and the bitter irony in his voice matched what I felt in my chest.
“She tried to eliminate what she saw as my greatest vulnerability,” I corrected. “But she made the mistake of assuming that love makes us weaker instead of stronger.”
Mason's voice crackled through the secure communications system with the kind of urgent information that meant our planning phase was about to become operational reality.
“Sir,” they said, “we've confirmed the location of the federal task force's primary evidence processing center. Pier 47, minimal security, everything they've gathered on our operations is being stored there for grand jury proceedings.”
I felt my pulse quicken with the recognition of opportunity, because destroying their evidence would cripple Reddick's ability to prosecute anyone who'd survived his systematic purge. But it would also require the kind of coordinated operation that exposed us to capture or death if anything went wrong.
“What's the security?” Ash asked, already thinking tactically about implementation rather than just possibility.
“Twelve federal agents, rotating shifts, heavy surveillance but limited response capability if they're hit fast and hard,” Mason replied. “But sir—the intelligence suggests they're expecting us to target that facility. It feels like bait.”
“Everything feels like bait when you're being hunted by people with unlimited resources,” I said, though the warning carried weight that couldn't be ignored. “The question is whether the reward justifies the risk.”
I looked at Ash, seeing him process the tactical implications with the same analytical intensity he brought to everything else. When he met my eyes, I could see resolve burning there, the kind of determination that came from understanding that some fights couldn't be avoided.
“We hit them tonight,” I decided. “Fast, hard, and professional enough that they understand exactly who they're dealing with.”
The preparation took three hours,every detail checked and rechecked until we carried enough weaponry to start a small war. Ash moved through the process with competence that reminded me why I'd been drawn to him from the beginning—not just his beauty or submission, but the intelligence and resilience that made him dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with firearms.
But it was watching him interact with Troy and Dmitri that revealed how completely he'd integrated into my organization's structure. They took orders from him without question, recognized his authority not just as my partner but as someone whose tactical insights had proven valuable enough to trust with their lives.
“Remember,” I said as we loaded into the armored vehicles that would carry us to what might be our last coordinated operation, “this isn't just about destroying evidence. It's about sending a message that hunting us carries consequences.”
The drive through Queens took forty minutes, forty minutes of watching the city I'd once controlled slip past windows that felt like barriers between us and a world that no longer recognized our right to exist. But sitting beside Ash, feeling the heat radiating from his skin and the steady competence of his presence, I realized that losing everything else might be worth it if it meant keeping him.
Pier 47 squatted on the East River like a concrete tumor, floodlights turning the surrounding water into sheets of moltensilver that reflected our approach. The federal agents had chosen their position well—clear sight lines in all directions, water on three sides, limited access points that could be easily defended.
But they'd also made the mistake of underestimating how much firepower I was willing to deploy to protect what belonged to me.
“Six guards visible,” Troy reported through our tactical communications, his voice carrying the calm professionalism that came from years of similar operations. “Probably another six inside, plus whatever response teams they can summon if things go sideways.”
“Response time for backup?” I asked, checking my weapons one final time.
“Fifteen minutes if they're lucky,” Dmitri replied, his Russian accent making the estimate sound like a death sentence. “More than enough time to complete mission and disappear.”
I looked at Ash, seeing him transform from strategic analyst to tactical operative as he checked his gear with movements that spoke to training I'd never given him. Somewhere in his eight years of survival, he'd learned to handle violence with the same competence he brought to intelligence analysis.
“You know what you're doing?” I asked, though the question was more about emotional preparation than tactical capability.
“I know that these people want to destroy us,” Ash replied, his voice carrying steel that reminded me why I'd fallen in love with someone who refused to break under pressure. “I know that letting them succeed means everything we've built dies with us.”
The first shot came from Dmitri's sniper rifle, a .50 caliber round that removed the guard tower's occupant from existence in a spray of blood and shattered glass. The subsequent assault was coordinated, professional, the kind of military operation that left no room for survivors or witnesses.
I moved through the warehouse with methodical violence, each target eliminated with calculated shots that spoke to fifteen years of practice at ending lives that threatened what belonged to me. But it was watching Ash work that revealed just how much he'd learned about survival in environments where hesitation meant death.
The federal agent who tried to flank our position died with Ash's knife between his ribs, the blade sliding in with anatomical accuracy that suggested knowledge gained through necessity rather than training. When their backup arrived, Ash was already in position to eliminate them before they could radio for additional support.
“Building clear,” Troy reported after we'd swept every room and corridor, leaving behind evidence of our capabilities written in blood across concrete floors.
But the evidence room was what we'd really come for—thousands of files, photographs, surveillance records, everything the task force had assembled to destroy what remained of New York's criminal hierarchy. I watched Ash move through the organized intelligence with analytical appreciation, identifying the most damaging materials and ensuring they were completely destroyed.
“Fifteen years of careful planning,” I said, watching him sort through documents that represented thousands of hours of federal investigation. “All reduced to ash and charcoal.”
“Not all of it,” Ash replied, holding up a file that made my blood run cold even in victory. “They've got intelligence on the auction survivors. Names, locations, enough information to track down everyone who might rebuild what you created.”
The revelation that our enemies had systematic intelligence on people I'd considered dead or disappeared sent something dark and protective flaring in my chest. This wasn't just aboutdestroying my organization—it was about ensuring that no one could ever rebuild what we'd represented.