Page 57 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost (Nightfall Syndicate #2)

forty

Asher

T he Ducati's engine cuts through Sacramento's late afternoon traffic like a blade through flesh. Every red light feels like tactical delay, every slow-moving vehicle an obstacle between me and the woman who makes every calculation matter.

My specialized pack weighs heavy against my shoulders, sniper components secured within reinforced framework. Tools for elimination work that can wait. Tools that mean nothing if I can't fix what I destroyed with my silence.

The familiar streets of R Street blur past in patterns of brick and glass. Industrial lofts converted into living spaces, each building a monument to urban renewal and careful renovation. But only one matters now.

Her building rises five stories above the sidewalk, windows reflecting gray October sky like closed eyes. I park the Ducati against the curb with precision that's become second nature, engine ticking as it cools.

My boots hit pavement with purpose that's been missing for hours. Every step toward her door carries weight—years of training, months of partnership, seventy-two hours of the worst miscalculation of my operational career.

The building entrance stands unlocked, just like before. I take the stairs three at a time, tactical boots echoing off concrete like artillery fire. Four flights pass in seconds that feel like hours. Her door sits at the end of the hallway, 4C stenciled in simple black numbers.

I knock hard against the metal door. Sharp, urgent raps that echo through the hallway like gunfire. The kind of knocking that demands immediate attention.

The door opens to reveal chaos.

Vanessa stands in the doorway wearing an oversized MIT sweatshirt and shorts that look like she grabbed them off the floor. Her dark hair escapes from a messy bun in wisps that frame her face. Brown eyes rimmed red with exhaustion and tears she's been crying since she left the compound.

She looks like hell. Beautiful, brilliant hell that I caused.

"You look..." I start.

"Like shit?" She crosses her arms over her chest, defensive posture that puts distance between us despite the narrow hallway. "Yeah, well, that happens when someone you love makes you feel like a liability instead of a partner."

The words hit center mass. Direct impact that leaves no room for deflection or tactical maneuvering.

"That's why I'm here." I step closer, noting how she doesn't back down despite everything. "I need to tell you what really happened after you left."

"Do you?" Her voice carries exhaustion like weapon weight. "Because I'm pretty sure I got the message loud and clear. Ms. Reyes. Like I was some contractor you'd hired for a job."

"I never agreed with Kade." The words pour out faster than intended. "I told him no. Told him you weren't going anywhere. Defied a direct order for the first time in eight years."

Her defensive posture shifts slightly. Confusion replaces some of the hurt in her brown eyes.

"But you sat there. You didn't say anything when he was talking."

"I was calculating." I move another step closer, eliminating distance with surgical precision. "Figuring out how to fight for you without destroying everything we've built. I should have spoken up immediately. Should have defended us the second he opened his mouth."

Tears spill down her cheeks again, impossible to hide in the harsh hallway lighting.

"You let me think..." Her voice breaks. "I thought you were choosing them over me."

"I was choosing you." The confession comes out rough, like it scraped my throat raw. "I chose you over eight years of perfect obedience. Chose you over Kade's authority. Chose you over protocol that's kept me alive since I enlisted."

She stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. Like the possibility never occurred to her that someone might fight for her instead of pushing her away.

"Vanessa." I close the final distance between us, close enough to see gold flecks in her brown eyes. "I love you."

The words hang in the narrow hallway like smoke from gunfire. Simple. Direct. True.

Her breath catches. "Asher..."

"I've loved you since Ethiopian coffee. Since questions without calculatable answers. Since you challenged every assumption I had about control and made me realize that some chaos improves the equation instead of destroying it."

Her hands come up to touch my chest, fingers spread over kevlar and equipment straps. Contact that sends electricity through modified nerve pathways.

"I love you too." The words come out as whisper. "But what happens now? Kade still thinks—"

"Kade gave me an assignment." I cover her hands with mine, feeling her pulse through her fingertips. "Williams elimination. Routine work to prove I'm still operational. But I'm not doing it without you."

Her brilliant mind processes implications in seconds. "You want my help?"

"I need my partner." The correction comes out with absolute certainty. "Need the woman who makes me better at everything I do. Need you to prove that loving someone doesn't compromise effectiveness—it perfects it."

A smile breaks through her exhaustion like sunrise through fog. Quick, brilliant, beautiful enough to stop cardiac function.

"Then let's go prove Kade wrong." She steps back, energy returning to her movements. "Give me ten minutes to pack proper equipment. If we're doing this, we're doing it right."

I watch her disappear into her loft, noting the way confidence returns to her step. How purpose replaces hurt in her movements.

This is what tactical advantage looks like.

Not distance. Not isolation. Partnership.

The Ducati carries us through Sacramento traffic with Vanessa's arms wrapped around my waist, her tablet secured in her backpack. The familiar weight of her against my back feels like tactical advantage finally optimized.

The financial district spreads before us in concrete and glass. I park two blocks from the target location.

"Your position will be there." I point toward a café with clear sightlines to Williams' location but protected from potential crossfire. "Wi-fi access, multiple exit routes, far enough from the target zone to maintain safety margins."

I reach back and squeeze her thigh gently before we dismount. "Stay sharp, little bunny."

James Williams maintains patterns with clockwork regularity that would make a Swiss timepiece jealous. Coffee shop on Montgomery Street every day at 4:30 PM, same corner table, same newspaper routine that's been logged for three weeks straight.

The kind of predictable behavior that should make elimination work textbook simple.

"Target acquired," I murmur into the comms unit, watching Williams through the scope mounted on my rifle. The construction site across from the coffee shop provides perfect elevation, clear backdrop, minimal civilian interference.

"I've got eyes on four different security cameras," Vanessa responds, her voice carrying through my earpiece with crystal clarity. "Two city traffic monitors, one bank ATM, one private business system. Give me thirty seconds."

Her voice carries steady focus through my earpiece, the sound of rapid keystrokes barely audible in the background. The familiar rhythm of her working feels like symphony accompaniment to operational planning.

"Systems compromised," she reports. "I've created a four-minute loop of empty footage. Clean window opens in sixty seconds."

Williams lifts his coffee cup right on schedule. Perfect positioning for the shot I've been calculating since we arrived. Wind speed negligible, target stationary, backdrop clear of complications.

But watching him through the scope, something feels different. Calmer. More focused than any elimination I've completed in months.

Because she's here. Because she's part of this instead of miles away wondering if I chose duty over her.

"Thirty seconds," Vanessa's voice carries steady confidence. "All digital evidence being scrubbed in real time. Vehicle registration already ghosted. You're invisible."

I line up the shot with mechanical precision, breathing steady, trigger finger applying graduated pressure exactly as trained. Williams sits perfectly still, unaware that his crimes have finally caught up to him.

"Ten seconds."

The shot breaks clean at exactly 4:32 PM. Williams drops immediately, coffee cup shattering against wet sidewalk. No witnesses look up. No cameras record suspicious activity. No digital footprints remain to connect bullets to operators.

"Target down," I report, already breaking down the rifle in seconds and fitting it precisely back within my specialized pack.

"All systems restored to normal operation," Vanessa confirms. "Footage loops ended, real feeds resumed. You were never here."

By the time we reach the Ducati, early news reports describe a "shooting incident under investigation." The kind of clinical language that means investigators haven't figured out what they're dealing with yet.

"That was..." Vanessa's voice comes through the helmet comm system, slightly breathless. "That was incredibly hot."

Her fingers trace deliberately along my ribs where she's holding on, the touch both steadying and provocative.

Most people would be horrified. Shocked. Maybe even sick.

Not my little bunny. She's practically glowing behind me.

"I just killed a man."

"I know." Her grip shifts, one hand sliding lower to rest against my stomach. "You were so calm. So controlled."

I reach back and squeeze her thigh firmly through her jeans, a warning wrapped in affection.

"Behave, little bunny. Traffic." Her soft laugh vibrates through the comm. "Most people would run."

"Most people aren't me." Her voice drops to that husky tone that makes my blood heat even through tactical focus. "Most people didn't just watch their partner execute a perfect mission."

The word 'partner' hits differently now. Not just in bed. In everything.

"We make a good team," she says, and there's heat in her voice that has nothing to do with technical success.