Page 1 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

one

Asher

" T ell me you're not sending me in there, Blade."

"I need eyes on this location. You're the nearest asset." Cole's voice remains calm in my earpiece, characteristic of him during operations.

"At a coffee shop? This is a waste of resources." I swing my leg over my Ducati, the white bodywork and teal accents gleaming in the morning sun. My muscles protest—third surveillance op in as many days.

"Intelligence suggests our target frequents the location. We need confirmation."

I exhale sharply, scanning the street before removing my helmet. "Fine. But I'm logging this as a misuse of tactical personnel."

Cole chuckles. "Noted."

The bell above the door announces my arrival at Temple Coffee Roasters. The scent hits me first, rich espresso beans and something sweet, followed by my tactical assessment that's second nature after fifteen years of operations.

Three exits: front door, kitchen access, fire escape through the bathroom window. Sixteen civilians present. Two baristas behind the counter.

The line crawls forward. While I wait, I study the businessman checking his watch every thirty seconds. The college student whose textbooks occupy more space than necessary. The elderly couple sharing what appears to be a scone.

No threat signatures. Just ordinary people living ordinary lives.

The calculated distance between myself and everyone else feels right. Comfortable. The way it's always been.

My attention shifts to the baristas. Male, early twenties, tattoos visible beneath rolled sleeves, quickly tapping an order on a screen. Female, petite with dark hair and pink streaks in a messy bun, working multiple machines simultaneously, her fingers dancing across equipment.

The line shuffles forward until I'm next.

The female barista looks up, and an unexpected brightness hits me—huge dark eyes set in a heart-shaped face that makes her look too young to be working here.

But there's something in her gaze, a flicker of assessment, that doesn't match her cheerful demeanor.

"What can I get for you?" Her voice is warm, animated. Something about her seems oddly familiar, though I'm certain we've never met.

I ignore the feeling. "Black coffee. Large."

"Just black? No room for cream?" She cocks her head, studying me like I'm a puzzle with missing pieces.

"Just black."

Her lips curve into a smile that seems to reach beyond the standard customer service mask. "Coming right up."

For a fraction of a second, I wonder what she sees when she looks at me. What anyone sees. Then I dismiss the thought. It doesn't matter. I'm not here to be seen.

I'm here to watch.

The barista pivots, the pink streaks in her messy bun catching the light as she moves. Her fingers close around a matte black cup, taller than the standard sizes arranged beneath the brewing station.

Not relevant to the mission. I redirect my attention to the door as another customer enters.

"Strong and bitter, just like the personality it matches."

I blink. She's back, setting my coffee on the counter, a playful spark in her eyes. No one makes comments like that to strangers. Especially not to men who look like me.

"Excuse me?"

"The coffee." She taps the cup with a short fingernail, painted black with tiny silver stars. "Single origin Ethiopian. It's intense but complex. Not everyone appreciates it."

"I didn't ask for Ethiopian." My voice comes out cooler than intended.

She shrugs, unbothered by my tone. "Trust me. If you're drinking it black, this is better than our house blend."

The way she scans the room between words catches my attention—left to right, eyes briefly lingering on the entrance, the back hallway, the windows. Not casual. Systematic. A pattern that mirrors tactical surveillance assessment.

Interesting.

"You always decide what customers want?" I pull my wallet from my jacket pocket.

"Only when I know I'm right." Her smile widens, revealing a slight dimple in her left cheek. "Which is most of the time."

Our fingers brush as I hand her my card. That quick touch shoots a surprising spark through my arm. Just some random static, that's it. But I withdraw my hand too quickly, betraying my discomfort.

My heart rate ticks up a fraction—an anomaly my body hasn't experienced outside of combat situations in years.

Her eyes flick to my face, registering my reaction. "Sorry about that. Happens all the time in here. Something about the machines."

I nod, not trusting myself to respond.

What the hell was that?

I'm distracted, mentally cataloging details I shouldn't care about—the coconut scent clinging to her hair, the perfect curve of her lower lip, the way she bounces slightly on her toes as if containing excess energy.

Irrelevant. Distracting. Delete.

"Enjoy." She slides the coffee toward me with a wink that seems both professional and somehow private.

I take my coffee and retreat to my pre-selected table, positioning myself with clear sightlines to every entrance and most patrons. The chair scrapes against hardwood as I position it to face the room with my back to the wall. Perfect.

She's handling three customers at once now, her fingers flying across the register screen, then commanding the espresso machine without missing a beat in her conversation. There's something about her movements that doesn't align with typical barista training.

I force my gaze back to the door. Target identification is the objective. Not analyzing baristas with intriguing movements and perceptive gazes.

But my eyes betray me, returning to her once more.

I take a sip of the coffee. It's exceptional; notes of dark chocolate and citrus cutting through the bitterness. Not that I'll give her the satisfaction of knowing I think that.

Opening my laptop creates the perfect cover for surveillance, but my attention keeps drifting back to the counter.

Movement in my peripheral vision. The barista approaches, carrying another cup. My muscles tense instinctively, a coil of alertness tightening between my shoulder blades. This isn't normal coffee shop protocol—counter service doesn't include table visits.

She sets the cup down beside my first one, still half-full. Steam rises from the dark liquid.

"Made this one special." Her tone leaves no room for refusal. "When you finish that one."

I don't look up. "I didn't order a second coffee."

"It's on the house."

"Not necessary." My voice drops colder, words clipped to discourage further interaction.

Instead of retreating, she stands her ground. "Has anyone ever told you that you have military posture? Back to wall, clear view of both exits, laptop angled for privacy, even the way you place your cup exactly one hand's width from your right side."

My fingers freeze over the keyboard. The observation is too accurate, too specific.

I raise my eyes slowly, reassessing her threat level. She's watching me with that same analytical expression beneath her customer service smile.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The way you scan the room every thirty seconds. Classic security sweep." She gestures with her chin. "That's not something casual coffee drinkers do."

My mind shifts into tactical evaluation mode. She's observant—dangerously so. Most civilians don't notice these patterns. Which means she's either trained or unusually perceptive.

"I like my privacy." I maintain eye contact, searching for tells. Her pupils dilate slightly.

"Everyone has secrets." The sentence hangs between us, loaded with implications.

She leans closer, bracing one hand on the table edge. The coconut scent intensifies. Strands of dark and pink hair fall across her face, and I resist the irrational urge to brush them back.

"You look like you're waiting for something important." She lingers, despite the line forming at the counter. "Or maybe someone?"

Her smile suggests both curiosity and something else I can't quite identify.

"Mind if I sit?" Without waiting for a response, she slips into the chair across from me. "I'm on break."

The movement interrupts my sightline to the door. Tactically disadvantageous. Protocols dictate minimal engagement with civilians during surveillance.

My teeth grind together with sudden force. The unfamiliar sensation of my back molars pressing against each other—a new sign my body's giving away stress without permission.

"I prefer working alone."

"So do I, usually." She tucks one leg beneath her, making herself comfortable despite my chilly reception. "But you're interesting."

I maintain a neutral expression, though something in my chest tightens at her proximity.

"I'm really not."

"See, that's exactly what interesting people say." She takes a sip from her own mug—something with cinnamon floating on top. "Military, right? There's a difference between how veterans and active duty carry themselves."

My internal alarms blare. This conversation crosses too many boundaries.

"Just good posture. My mother was strict."

She laughs, the sound surprisingly genuine. "Mine too."

The café noise swells around us—espresso machine hissing, conversations flowing, music overhead—creating a strange privacy bubble despite being in public.

"You hear about the commemoration ceremony at Travis Air Force Base next month?" she asks, abruptly changing subjects. "Fifty years since Operation Homecoming brought back the first POWs from Vietnam."

The pivot catches me off-guard. Travis is the nearest major military installation. This could be innocent conversation or deliberate probing.

"Not much for ceremonies," I respond, studying her reaction.

"I went to one last year. The precision of those honor guards is something else. Twenty-one second pauses between each rifle volley, perfect flag folding with exactly thirteen steps."

That level of detail isn't common knowledge. My fingers tense against my coffee cup.

"You seem well-informed about military protocol for a barista."

"And you seem well-trained in evasive conversation for a..." She tilts her head. "What is it you do, anyway?"

I've conducted interrogations with less precision than her casual questions. Not once has she broken eye contact.

"Does it matter?"

"Everything matters." She shrugs. "Details tell stories."

Something about her directness bypasses my usual deflection instincts. The conversation draws me in, despite every training protocol screaming to disengage.

"What's your story then?" The question emerges before I can stop it.

Her mouth curves into a smile that's both challenging and warm. "Complicated. Just like yours, I'm guessing."

The temperature in the room seems to shift, my tactical turtleneck suddenly too warm against my skin. A response forms in my throat, something uncharacteristically personal, before the vibration against my thigh interrupts whatever I might have said next.

Three rapid buzzes, then one sustained vibration—emergency. The calm I'd inexplicably been feeling evaporates instantly.

"I need to go." I'm already gathering my laptop, reverting to operational efficiency.

"Of course you do." Something knowing flickers across her face. "Maybe next time you'll try the Ethiopian blend without being forced."

The phone vibrates again, and I pull it out to answer. Kade. This isn't just a check-in.

"Frost. Get back to CPG HQ immediately." His voice is clipped, all business. "There's been a development. We need everyone in the same room for this."

"Copy that." My voice shifts automatically to operational tone. "I'm still in Sacramento."

"Just get here as soon as you can."

The line goes dead. Whatever he found must be significant. Cold efficiency replaces the warm coffee and intriguing conversation.

I close my laptop and slide it into my bag in one fluid motion. The half-finished Ethiopian blend sits abandoned, still warm.

My gaze flicks involuntarily toward the counter. She left and is back behind the espresso machine, but her eyes meet mine across the room. The brief connection sends an unexpected current through my chest.

Her expression shifts subtly. Eyebrows lifting slightly, head tilting a fraction of an inch. It's like she can see the change in me, the abrupt transition from reluctant conversation to operational mode.

I don't acknowledge her. Can't. Whatever connection sparked between us dies under professional obligation. My shoulders straighten, jaw tightening as I gather my things.

Yet something tugs at me, a peculiar reluctance I haven't felt during extraction in years. The urge to finish our conversation, to discover what secrets lie behind those perceptive eyes, conflicts with years of operational discipline.

Pathetic. Unprofessional. Delete.

I stand, body language reverting to its default state—controlled, distant, alert. My shoulders square with practiced precision, though my heart still runs a beat faster than operational standard. The strange comfort I'd briefly experienced in her presence gets filed away as an operational anomaly.

She moves to a nearby table, gathering empty cups. As I pass, she doesn't look up, but her voice reaches me, barely audible above the café noise.

"Stay safe out there."

The words hit with unexpected impact. Not "goodbye" or "see you later" but a soldier's farewell.

As I leave the coffee shop, the barista's parting words, "Stay safe out there", resonate with an unexpectedly meaningful tone, sending a subtle tremor through my steady hands as I reach for my motorcycle helmet.

My body's uncharacteristic response bothers me as I reflect on our quick, puzzling meeting. I hardly ever lose my cool like this.

My phone vibrates again. Kade's impatience feels like a physical presence.

The Ducati rumbles to life beneath me, the engine's vibration grounding me back in reality. In my rearview mirror, I glimpse her through the café window, watching me go with that analytical gaze.