Page 34 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost (Nightfall Syndicate #1)

twenty-eight

Kade

I stride into the command center, the doors shutting behind me. The team looks up from their stations, instantly alert to my mood. My jaw is clenched tight enough to crack teeth, and I don't bother masking it.

"Team meeting. Now." My voice cuts through the room like a knife.

Cole rises first, tablet in hand, his movements measured as always. "I've been compiling data on Steele's known associates. There's a pattern emerging with his international movements."

Damian slides a digital file across the table display. "I've got three confirmed hits matching his MO from the last two years. Clean, professional, completely untraceable to anyone who doesn't know what to look for."

I nod, scanning the information without fully seeing it. My mind keeps drifting to the journalist currently sulking in Roman's office. The journalist who's still furious with me.

"We need to fast-track Bennett's training," I announce, cutting through the updates. "She's a liability without basic skills, and I won't have her endangering herself or this operation."

Jax's eyebrows shoot up, a grin spreading across his face. "You sure that's a good idea, boss? Giving her training when she's pissed enough to put a bullet in you?"

"That's exactly why Frost handles the weapons portion," I reply, not rising to the bait.

Asher's eyes flick up from the ballistics report he's reviewing. "She shows promise. Good instincts, solid focus." His assessment is clipped, precise.

"What's the timeline?" Cole asks, already creating a schedule on his tablet.

"Three days." I plant both hands on the table, leaning forward. "Basics only. Enough to keep her alive if she gets separated from us."

Xander whistles low. "That's ambitious. Even for someone with her background."

"It's necessary," I counter, straightening up. "Remy can observe for signs of fatigue or over-training. I want her pushed, not broken."

Remy nods, his usual affable demeanor replaced with professional assessment. "I'll monitor her vitals and recovery capacity."

"B3 in twenty minutes," I order. "Each of you prepare a condensed training module on your specialty. Focus on survival skills only. "

The team disperses efficiently, gathering equipment and data as I turn toward the elevator. A hand on my shoulder stops me—Cole.

"Ghost." His voice is quiet enough that only I can hear. "This isn't just about training her. You're worried."

I shrug his hand off. "She's a civilian in a war zone."

Cole's expression doesn't change. "And you're a commander making emotional decisions."

"You questioning my judgment?" The temperature in my voice drops ten degrees.

"Just observing that you've never fast-tracked anyone's training before. Not even when we had assets in active combat zones." He pauses. "Is this about keeping her safe, or keeping her close?"

I don't answer, striding instead toward the elevator. "B3. Twenty minutes," I repeat over my shoulder.

The B3 training facility is already humming with activity when I arrive.

Jax has set up a compact driving simulation station, complete with reaction-time monitors. Asher methodically arranges weapons on the firing range table—starting with smaller calibers and working up. I notice he's included a Glock similar to the one Roman kept in his desk drawer. Smart .

Xander steps out of the equipment room, carrying a small case that undoubtedly contains basic explosive recognition tools.

Cole stands near the digital tactics board, loading custom scenarios.

Remy arranges a medical kit with field essentials, while Damian sets up what looks like a simplified interrogation resistance station.

I stand on the observation platform, watching them work with military precision. This is my team at their best—focused, efficient, deadly. And we're about to introduce a firebrand journalist into the mix.

The elevator doors slide open, and the atmosphere shifts instantly. Every man in the room straightens slightly, attention diverted for a microsecond before deliberately returning to their tasks. Too deliberately.

Alina steps into the training area, her chin lifted in that defiant angle I'm coming to recognize too well. Her eyes scan the room, taking in the stations before landing on me. The temperature between us could freeze hell over.

"You wanted me trained," she says, her voice carrying across the space. "Here I am."

Cole, ever the diplomatic one, approaches her first. "We'll start with situational awareness and threat assessment," he explains, gesturing toward his station. His tone is professional, giving no indication of the tension crackling through the room.

She nods, shoulders squared, and follows him without sparing me another glance.

"This is going to be interesting," Jax mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.

I ignore him, keeping my position on the platform. From here, I can observe everything—every technique, every reaction, every potential weakness. I tell myself it's strategic, not that I'm keeping my distance from the green-eyed storm below.

"Three days," I remind them all. "Make them count."

The training proceeds in brutal eighteen-hour cycles. Cole takes the first shift, teaching Alina to catalog exits, identify potential weapons in everyday environments, and recognize surveillance. She absorbs the information quickly, her journalist's eye for detail serving her well.

Jax follows with evasive movement techniques—how to lose a tail, how to move unpredictably without appearing suspicious. His natural energy seems to break through some of her ice, earning the occasional reluctant smile when she masters a particularly difficult maneuver.

Remy's medical training is efficient but thorough—pressure points, field bandaging, recognizing the symptoms of shock. "In our line of work," he tells her, "sometimes you have to keep yourself alive long enough for extraction."

By the second day, I see the physical toll beginning to show. Dark circles form under her eyes, her movements slightly less crisp. But her determination never wavers. If anything, exhaustion makes her push harder.

Damian's session on resistance techniques is particularly grueling. He teaches her how to withstand questioning, how to feed false information convincingly, how to maintain her cover under pressure. To her credit, she doesn't break once.

"She's stubborn," Damian reports afterward. "It'll keep her alive."

Xander's explosives recognition training is mercifully brief—just enough for her to identify common devices and understand basic safety protocols. "Better to run than try to disarm," he advises her. "Leave the heroics to the professionals."

Throughout it all, I maintain my distance, watching from the platform, occasionally stepping away to check on investigation updates. Each time I return, my eyes find her automatically, assessing her progress, noting her improvements and weaknesses.

On the third day, Asher takes her to the range. The crack of gunfire echoes through the facility as he guides her through proper stance, grip, trigger discipline. She's fired guns before—that much is obvious—but Asher refines her technique with characteristic precision.

"Breathe through the shot," his voice carries up to my position. "Don't anticipate the recoil. Let it happen."

I watch as she empties a clip into the target, her grouping tightening with each magazine. Asher nods in silent approval, making minute adjustments to her form.

"Not bad," he says finally, his highest form of praise.

By the end of the third day, she's swaying slightly on her feet, exhaustion evident in every line of her body. But there's something else there too—a new confidence, a deadlier grace to her movements.

The team gathers for a final assessment, each reporting on her progress in their area. I listen silently, cataloging the information.

"She's ready?" I finally ask, my gaze fixed on Alina, who meets my eyes unflinchingly despite her fatigue.

"As ready as anyone can be in three days," Cole answers carefully.

"Good enough." I straighten from my position against the wall. "Bennett, get some rest. Tomorrow we put it all together. "

She nods once, professional despite everything, and turns toward the elevator. I catch Asher's eye as she leaves.

"Your assessment?"

He considers for a moment, his expression unreadable. "She learns fast. Adapts well. More importantly, she has the instinct." He pauses. "She'll survive."

Coming from Asher, it's practically a glowing recommendation. I nod, something tight in my chest easing slightly.

The team disperses, heading back to their stations, but Cole lingers, waiting until we're alone.

"You should talk to her," he says quietly. "This tension isn't good for the mission."

I shoot him a look that would make most men back down. Cole just waits, immune after years of working together.

"The mission is what matters," I finally reply. "Not hurt feelings."

Cole shakes his head slightly. "Keep telling yourself that."

I watch him walk away, hating that he might be right. But some wounds aren't ready to be addressed, and some risks I'm not prepared to take. Not yet.

Not when her life depends on getting this right.