Page 14 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

nine

Asher

T he crosshairs of my scope center on a shadow moving behind half-drawn curtains. Three days of surveillance, and Echo remains more phantom than flesh. The silhouette passes the window again, moving with purpose.

"Movement confirmed. Target remains active in primary living space." My voice barely disturbs the surrounding air.

Wind shifts five degrees. I make a quarter-inch adjustment to compensate. Sacramento's evening traffic creates a constant background hum sixteen stories below, but up here, I exist in perfect isolation.

"Any visual confirmation it's actually Echo?" Kade's voice comes through my earpiece, the slight static showing he's in motion.

"Negative. Just shadows through the curtains." My eye never leaves the scope. "But the power consumption spiked twenty minutes ago."

Cole's voice cuts in. "Sixteen separate encryption protocols started in the last hour. This is definitely Echo's workspace."

I track the shadow crossing the window. Something about the movements feels familiar. My finger rests alongside the trigger guard, not on the trigger. This isn't that kind of operation.

"This Echo led us on a wild goose chase before," Kade reminds us. "Could be another misdirection."

"Not this time." The certainty in my voice surprises even me. "The USB had trafficking financial records. This is our source."

Cole interrupts. "Three potential entry points. Main entrance requires bypassing electronic security. Roof access has trip sensors. Fire escape looks cleanest but most exposed."

"I'll take the main entrance." I'm already collapsing my rifle. Each component slides into my specialized case with whisper-quiet precision.

"Alone?" Kade's question holds surprise. In our years working together, I've never volunteered for direct contact. I'm the distance man. The watcher.

"The invite named me specifically." My heart rate ticks up two beats per minute. I register the change with detachment. "Two-man approach risks spoking the target."

A pause on the comms. I can almost hear Kade weighing protocol against instinct.

"Overwatch positions?" he finally asks.

"Blade on the northeast corner. You on the building across from the fire escape. If I need extraction, I'll signal."

"Copy that." Kade's voice holds curiosity. "Maintain open comms."

My equipment disappears into the specialized backpack. No trace left behind. I rise from my position, shadow disengaging from shadow.

"Moving to contact."

In the apartment building, the hallway stretches before me, industrial fixtures casting pools of amber light between long shadows. My footsteps make no sound as I move toward apartment 4C. My breathing is controlled, four seconds in, four seconds out.

"In position." I keep my voice just above a whisper.

"Maintaining overwatch." Kade's voice is equally quiet.

The doorframe tells a story: standard electronic keypad upgraded with custom components, a poorly hidden camera with professional-grade optics, standard peephole replaced with wide-angle lens. Amateur and professional elements mixed together.

Something isn't right.

I press my fingertips against the door. It gives slightly.

Unlocked.

My hand drops to my weapon. Echo isn't careless. Every action I've tracked was calculated. This isn't a mistake.

"Door's unsecured." I keep my voice flat despite the warning bells.

"Be advised, massive power consumption inside," Cole transmits. "Serious hardware running."

I draw my Sig Sauer, positioning myself beside the doorframe. My back presses against the wall, muscles coiled.

"Breach protocol?" Kade asks.

Standard protocol demands fallback, evaluation, reinforcements. But something else pushes against that training. Curiosity. A need to understand the person who's been three steps ahead of us.

"Proceeding with caution."

A faint scent drifts from beneath the door—coffee, the good kind, mixed with the ozone smell of electronics. I inhale deeply, gathering data. No gunpowder. No chemical agents.

The same scent from the coffee shop.

My heartbeat jumps to 72 BPM. Heat spreads beneath my skin, a visceral reaction I can't seem to control.

"On my mark," I whisper.

I place my hand flat against the door, feeling for vibrations. Nothing. With practiced precision, I push it open six inches, weapon ready, scanning what I can see.

The muzzle of my Sig leads as I push the door further, using it as a shield. I step through the threshold in one fluid motion, sweeping left to right—

And freeze.

The apartment erupts with color and light. At least five monitors glow with streams of code atop an industrial metal desk. Exposed brick walls display evidence boards and family photos. Despite apparent chaos, there's an unmistakable pattern to the madness.

"Status?" Kade's voice comes through my earpiece.

I can't speak. Every tactical detail floods my awareness: main exit behind me, fire escape through west window, narrow service corridor to the left, roof access hatch partially hidden by ceiling beams. Security cameras in each corner.

And her.

The barista sits cross-legged in an ergonomic chair, fingers dancing across multiple keyboards. Dark hair in a messy bun, neon pink streaks fully visible. Oversized glasses reflect cascading code.

That coconut-vanilla scent fills the space between us.

"You're two minutes early, Asher." She doesn't look up, just continues typing.

My Sig Sauer remains steady despite the heat flooding my system. The coffee shop. The conference. The deliberate encounters.

My mind recalibrates everything. My throat constricts.

"You've been preparing for me." I sweep the room again, identifying cover points, calculating angles. Anything to regain control over my unexpected physical response.

When she finally turns, heat surges through my bloodstream. The woman who'd smiled at me over Ethiopian coffee isn't some random barista.

She's Echo.

"For about six days now." Her smile is the same one replaying in my mind. "You're good, but I planned on you being good."

The disconnect between flirtatious barista and elite hacker makes my skin prickle. I maintain weapon position through muscle memory while my brain struggles to reconcile these conflicting personas.

"Frost, report. What's happening?" Cole's voice is urgent.

I ignore him. Something dangerous unfurls in my chest. Not fear, but reluctant admiration mixed with something more base.

"The coffee shop wasn't coincidence." Not a question.

"Neither was the conference." She stands, moving with efficient grace. "I needed to see if you were worth my time."

She gestures toward a steaming mug on a cluttered coffee table. As she moves past me, her arm brushes mine. That coconut-vanilla scent envelops me, triggering heat that pools low in my abdomen. My grip on the Sig tightens.

"I hope you like herbal tea. After working in a café all day, I'm coffee'd out."

I lower my weapon a fraction, keeping my finger along the frame. My body remains combat-ready even as something deeper responds to her proximity.

I position myself within two steps of cover, back angled toward windows. Her loft is a tactical nightmare for me, but paradise for her—open sight lines, multiple monitors, home field advantage.

"How'd you ID me?" I keep my tone neutral, though my pulse thunders.

She laughs, bouncing toward the displays. Her movements are rapid, excited.

"Your coffee cup." She says this like it explains everything. "DNA analysis is straightforward with the right equipment. Military databases aren't as secure as they should be."

I make two subtle clicks on my comms—team signal for non-hostile contact. My eyes never leave her as she moves between displays. Fluid yet constantly in motion, like a small, efficient predator.

"We found you in Steele's systems after his death." I track every micro-expression. "Sloppy work for someone with your skills."

Her smile sharpens. "Had to leave breadcrumbs somewhere. Didn't know who else might be in his network."

"Breadcrumbs."

"I was fishing." She shrugs, moving closer. "Never thought I'd snag someone so... calculated. Or the crew he runs with."

The word 'calculated' carries weight, like she's observed far more than my coffee preferences.

"Jenny Martinez was tracing financial networks." She taps a photo of a young woman with dark hair. "Paradise Elite connects to modeling agencies in fourteen states. When she died, I kept digging."

My eyes scan the boards, recognizing patterns we'd identified but hadn't connected. Her board goes deeper—makes connections we'd missed.

Brilliant. Dangerous, but brilliant.

"You've been busy." I take a careful sip of tea. It's surprisingly good, green tea with citrus and mint. The realization that she's studied me this carefully sends tightness through my chest.

Unfamiliar and unwelcome.

When she moves past me toward another screen, the coconut scent brushes against my senses. My awareness of her proximity sharpens—a tactical failing I try to suppress.

"These dummy corporations flow back to a single holding company." She pulls up financial records, scrolling faster than most could process. "See the pattern?"

I do. The same pattern that led us to Steele.

"Vertex Models." I step closer, the heat of her body registering against my senses. Keeping a distance would be safer. I move closer anyway.

"Exactly." Her eyes light up, fingers flying across keyboards. "Vertex opened offices in fourteen cities in three years. Each time, young women disappeared within months."

My brain clicks pieces into place while another part registers how her hands move with elegant precision. The pink streak catches light when she turns, drawing my attention to the curve of her neck.

"Paradise Elite recruits through these agencies." Her voice grows intense. "Jenny was tracking patterns when—"

"When she was killed." I finish, eyes on the evidence wall. "Official story was carjacking."

"But her laptop was missing. All her notes, gone." Her voice drops. "Sound familiar? Making people disappear?"

I study surveillance photos: young women entering buildings but never leaving. The composition suggests Jenny took them herself.

"What made you target me specifically?" I keep my voice neutral, though my heartbeat accelerates.

"Your military record has more holes than Swiss cheese." She turns to face me fully. "And you showed up at multiple locations I was monitoring."

Our gazes lock, heat flaring between us.

"You've been tracking my movements."

"While you've been hunting me." Her smile lacks warmth. "I've been watching you track my digital footprints."

I lean forward, maintaining eye contact.

"Tracking? More like watching you bounce across the internet like a maniacal rabbit." My fingers mimic erratic hopping motions. "My team's been following your little digital footprints, little bunny."

The nickname exits before I can stop it. Her eyes widen, annoyance flashing across her features. But behind the irritation, I catch amusement she tries to hide, the corner of her mouth twitching before she controls it. She tilts her chin up, defiant.

"I'm not your 'little bunny.'" She narrows her eyes, but rapid heartbeat at her throat gives her away.

I need to capture this woman and finish the job. But something unexpected flickers inside me. Dangerous fascination I can't afford.

But here I stand, breaking every protocol in the book.

"Tell me about Vertex's connection to trafficking." I move closer to the evidence board.

She studies me for a beat too long, dark eyes assessing something beyond my tactical capacity. Heat crawls up my neck under her scrutiny. Then she nods toward her kitchen.

"I think better with food. Maybe something stronger to drink."

As she turns away, the logical part of my brain maps her movement patterns, noting blind spots and defensive weaknesses. But another part tracks the confident sway of her hips, the line of her shoulders.

When she returns, she pushes a fresh cup toward me, fingers brushing mine.

"There's no way this is coincidence—you hunting Steele's network, me following Jenny's trail. We've been circling the same target from different directions."

Every training manual screams at me to withdraw, report, maintain professional distance.

I take the cup, letting my fingers linger against hers. The contact sends a jolt through my system that has nothing to do with tactics and everything to do with the woman before me.

"Let's compare notes."