Page 56 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

thirty-nine

Asher

T he elevator doors close behind Vanessa with a sound that echoes through my chest like artillery fire. The observation room falls into the kind of silence that precedes explosions.

Kade turns back to the interrogation windows, apparently satisfied with his tactical assessment. "Now we can proceed without—"

"No."

The word cuts through the air like a blade. Everyone freezes. Even Damian shifts forward from his corner, gray eyes sharp with interest.

Kade's head turns toward me with mechanical precision. "Excuse me?"

"I said no." I stand from my position near the wall, every eye in the room tracking my movement. "Vanessa stays."

The temperature drops ten degrees. In eight years of working for Roman and Kade, I've never directly contradicted an order. Never challenged command structure. Never put personal considerations above tactical decisions.

Until now.

"Cross." Kade's voice carries warning like a loaded weapon. "This isn't a discussion."

"You're right. It's not." My hands remain steady at my sides, but something fundamental shifts in my chest. Like a scope adjustment that brings everything into perfect focus. "Because I'm not sending her away."

Jax's casual slouch disappears entirely. Cole's tablet goes forgotten in his hands. The air itself seems to hold its breath.

"She's a liability to your judgment," Kade continues, using that measured tone that's ended careers and broken stronger men than me.

"She's an asset to this team. And she's mine."

The words hang in the air like smoke from gunfire. Final. Irreversible.

Kade steps forward, using every inch of his massive frame to establish dominance. "That moment in the medical bay when you were out of control proved my point. You beat the hell out of Xander and Jax because they were following protocol."

Heat floods my neck. The memory burns—Vanessa possibly dead, my team holding me back while rage consumed every rational thought.

"They were keeping me from her."

"They were following standard procedure. You lost complete control." Kade's voice cuts like surgical steel. "That's not tactical thinking. That's emotional compromise."

Around us, the team finds the walls and ceiling fascinating. Jax drums his knuckles against his thigh in nervous energy. Cole's fingers hover over his tablet like he's typing invisible reports.

"My response was appropriate to the threat level."

"Your response was unhinged." Kade moves closer, every word deliberate. "You attacked your own team members. Men who've had your back for years."

The accusation lands like a body shot. Because he's right. In that moment, seeing Vanessa pale and still, nothing else existed except getting to her. Protocol meant nothing. Team loyalty meant nothing.

"She makes you dangerous in all the wrong ways, Cross."

"She makes me better." Each word comes out clipped and precise. "And if you can't see that, then maybe you're the one who's compromised."

The accusation lands like a sniper's bullet. Center mass. Fatal to the chain of command.

Kade's eyes narrow to arctic slits. "You're out of line."

"Good." The response surprises even me. "Because being in line means losing the one person who makes me want to be more than just a weapon."

A heavy silence descended. In the distance, interrogation equipment hums like a funeral dirge.

"Everyone out." Kade's command voice fills the room. "Except Asher and Cole."

Chairs scrape against concrete as the team files out. Jax catches my eye as he passes, that sharp blue-green gaze carrying something between concern and calculation. The door closes with a finality that echoes through the space.

"James Williams," Kade slides a manila folder across the nearest table. "Financial consultant skimming from the wrong accounts. Client wants the problem resolved quietly. Forty-eight hours maximum."

I stare at the folder without touching it. "You're testing me."

"I'm giving you a chance to prove you're still operational." His voice carries measured authority that's broken stronger men than me. "Complete it clean, and we'll discuss Vanessa's status."

Cole shifts beside the wall, maintaining perfect silence. His presence feels deliberate—witness to whatever judgment Kade plans to render.

"This is routine work." Kade continues. "Basic surveillance, clean elimination. If you can't handle Williams without complications, then you've proven my point about being compromised."

The folder sits between us like evidence of my failure. The pink hair tie around my wrist feels like a brand against my skin.

"And if I complete it flawlessly?"

"Then we'll reconsider the tactical advantages of keeping Ms. Reyes close." Kade's tone carries no promises, only conditional possibility.

I grab the Williams folder, manila paper rough against my fingers. "Understood."

"Good. Report back when it's done."

I head toward the door, tactical gear already catalogued in my mind. Weapons check, surveillance equipment, extraction routes. The familiar rhythm of mission planning feels like muscle memory engaging.

"Cross." Kade's voice stops me at the threshold. "Don't prove me right about emotional compromise."

The door closes behind me with a sound like gunshot.

Time to prove that loving Vanessa doesn't make me weak. It makes me lethal.

The elevator ride to sub-level 2 feels like descending into combat zone.

The maintenance bay stretches before me in concrete and steel. Familiar territory where variables behave according to physics instead of emotion. Where calculations matter more than feelings.

The sound of impact tools against metal draws me toward the far end. Jax's solar red Mercedes sits with its hood raised, diagnostic equipment scattered around the workspace in patterns that would drive me insane if I had to work in them.

"Timing belt's still off by three degrees." His voice calls from beneath the engine bay, muffled by metal and momentum. "Hand me that torque wrench."

I grab the tool from his collection, noting how everything sits within easy reach despite the apparent chaos. Organization by frequency of use rather than size or type.

"Here." I hand him the wrench. "Getting ready for that charity race?"

Jax rolls out on the creeper, dark blond hair disheveled, grease streaking his forearms like war paint. Those sharp blue-green eyes lock onto my face, and his expression shifts.

"You look like someone just ripped your heart out through your chest. Rough meeting?"

The question hits harder than it should. I can track wind patterns to three decimal places, but I can't remember the last time unconsciousness came without calculation.

"I'm fine."

"Right." Jax slides back under the car, metal clanging like artillery fire. "And I'm Mother Teresa. What's Kade got you doing?"

"Standard contract work. Williams elimination."

"Ah." The wrench stops moving. "So he's testing whether you can still kill people without letting feelings get in the way."

Heat floods my neck. "Something like that."

Jax rolls out again, sitting up on the creeper with grease-stained hands folded over his knees. "You know what your real problem is?"

"Enlighten me."

"You let her walk out of there thinking you agreed with Kade's bullshit assessment." His voice carries that casual delivery that makes the truth hit harder. "She's probably sitting in her loft right now, wondering what she did wrong. Why she wasn't worth defending."

The words slam into my chest like body shots. Vanessa, surrounded by her computers, brilliant mind spinning through possibilities, convinced she's the variable that doesn't compute. Those dark eyes wide with confusion and hurt.

My stomach drops into free fall.

"She watched you sit there silent while Kade called her a liability. What conclusion do you think that brilliant brain of hers reached?"

That I chose duty over her. That I agreed with the assessment. That loving me was her mistake.

"Shit."

"Yeah." Jax stands, wiping hands on a rag that spreads more grease than it removes.

"So you can go eliminate Williams and prove to Kade that you're still his perfect little sniper.

But what happens if something goes sideways on the job?

What if you hesitate at the wrong moment because part of your brain is calculating how badly you fucked up with the one person who actually matters? "

His analysis cuts through every defense I have left. Mission success depends on complete mental clarity. Divided attention creates variables that get people killed.

"You're saying I should see her first."

"I'm saying you're about to prove you're operational to Kade, but you left the most important person thinking you don't give a shit about her.

Fix that first, genius." Jax leans against his car, engine heat shimmering around him like desert mirage.

"Or prove Kade right when your head's not in the game because you're thinking about her instead of your target. "

Every calculation I've made crumbles. Every tactical assessment I've run assumes mission first, personal considerations second. But those equations didn't account for the reality that unsecured variables create cascade failures.

"Besides," Jax grins, but something sharper lurks behind the expression. "What's the tactical advantage of completing a perfect elimination if the woman you love thinks you chose protocol over her? Pyrrhic victory, if you ask me."

The argument builds in my throat, then dies. Because he's right. About all of it.

I head toward my gear locker, mission parameters shifting in real time.

My specialized sniper pack sits exactly where regulation demands—cleaned, organized, ready for deployment. The modular rifle system breaks down into components that fit precisely within the reinforced framework. Scope, bipod, ammunition. Tools for eliminating problems with surgical precision.

The weight settles across my shoulders like familiar armor. But instead of heading toward Williams' location, I walk toward the motorcycle bay.

My Ducati Panigale V4R sits beneath fluorescent lighting like a sculpture of controlled violence.

Ice white with teal accents that match the surgical precision of everything I do.

The engine turns over with mechanical perfection, 1,103 cubic centimeters of Italian engineering designed for speed and agility.

The specialized pack straps securely to the bike's frame. Ready for elimination work that will prove my operational capacity remains intact.

But first, I have equations to correct.

Helmet secure, gloves checked, route calculated through Sacramento's morning traffic. Vanessa's loft sits forty-seven minutes away at current speed projections.

Time to prove that loving her doesn't compromise my effectiveness.

It perfects it.

The garage door opens to reveal gray October morning, San Francisco fog rolling through early light like smoke from distant fires. The Ducati's engine note echoes off the concrete walls as I throttle toward R Street and the woman who makes every calculation matter.

Williams can wait. This can't.