Page 40 of Watch Me Burn

AARON

T he safe house Tristan picked is a run-down loft overlooking a grimy street.

Cracked facade, warped windows, and a flickering neon sign from the liquor store across the alley casting sickly pink light through the grime.

It’s a universe away from our usual high-end meeting spots, but that’s precisely the point.

No one would think to look for us in this shithole.

I step inside and scan the space. Window sight lines: good.

Multiple exits: at least two, possibly three if we get creative.

Furniture that’s seen better days. Classic Tristan misdirection, appears chaotic on the surface while locked down underneath.

That’s what I like about him. He plays careless, and always has, but he’s never not calculating.

It smells like a setup.

The floors are spotless. Counters wiped down. A faint citrus-sanitizer smell clings to the air that’s too fresh. There’s an old camera port in the ceiling, hastily covered with duct tape. Sloppy work.

And Tristan never does sloppy.

I make note of it but decide to not say anything. Wrong time for paranoia.

He paces near the table, laying out photos and intel with a sharpness that borders on obsessive. The usual jokester demeanor is gone. And for once, so is the tailored suit. This is all so unlike him.

He’s in jeans and a plain black sweater, which does more to rattle me than the concealed weapons I know he’s carrying.

“Slumming it today?”

“Some of us don’t need Italian tailoring to project authority, Aaron.”

Caterina snorts softly beside me. Her shoulder brushes against mine as she moves closer to examine the documents, sending an involuntary spark through my body.

She moves to the window, running a gloved finger along the sill.

“Someone cleaned this place recently. No dust. No webs. It doesn’t smell abandoned. It smells prepped.” She glances between Tristan and me. “This used to be Doyle territory.”

Tristan pauses a bit too long.

“Years ago. They relocated operations,” he says finally.

“Did they really?”

She doesn’t press, there is no need. The insinuation is clear.

Whatever’s on that drive, whatever he’s not saying, it’s crawling under his skin. I’ve known Tristan a long time. We’ve worked dozens of black ops together. I’ve seen him bluff billionaires, kill in cold blood, vanish entire shell companies with a phone call. But I’ve never seen him like this.

Tense. Distracted. Exposed.

And that makes me incredibly nervous.

“Where’s Jensen?” I ask, noticing the absence of Tristan’s most trusted operative.

Tristan doesn’t meet my eyes. “Radio silence. Twenty-four hours.”

“That’s not nothing.”

He doesn’t reply.

And that’s all the confirmation I need.

“Did you wipe everything, just in case?”

Tristan nods, but pivots fast. “I’ve been digging for weeks. Breaking through Doyle and Mortelle security was nearly impossible. But someone got careless.” He flicks a photo toward us. “Lynch. You were right to flag her.”

“How careless?” Caterina asks, already scanning the photos.

“Careless enough to lead me straight to the source. She’s been feeding intel to someone inside our circles—tracking both of you. Direct hits.”

His fingers hover over Keira’s image a beat too long.

“And I think she knows where Dominik’s mother is.”

The room goes still.

My gut twists, dread settling deep and sharp under my ribs. Not her. Please, not her. She’s just collateral in a war she never signed up for. A woman who’s done nothing but protect the people I love.

“She doesn’t deserve this,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone.

“She doesn’t,” Tristan agrees.

“How do we get to her?”

Tristan doesn’t answer right away. He studies Keira’s photo like it might blink first.

“We trap her. Tonight.”

Beside me, Caterina shifts. “She’s the best lead?”

“She’s the only one. I’ve been tracking the Doyles for weeks. Keira’s clean, at least on paper, but I know better. She’s meeting a contact in the warehouse district. I triple-checked it.” He seems hesitant, as if he’s unsure if he should have shared that with us.

What the fuck is going on with him?

“This is our shot.”

Caterina looks at me. I recognize that expression. She’s calculating odds, measuring risks. The weight of everything we’ve done to each other sits in the silence.

I turn to Tristan. “What aren’t you telling us?”

“What makes you think I’m hiding something?”

“Because I know you,” I say, sharper than intended. “And this feels personal.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” Caterina’s voice cuts through the space like a knife. “Don’t deflect. Not tonight.”

Tristan hesitates for a second too long. “I crossed paths with Keira in Dublin years ago. Different op, and a different world.”

I narrow my eyes. “And?”

“She surprised me.”

Not a phrase Tristan uses lightly. I’ve seen him dismantle federal networks and warlords with a smile. Nothing rattles him. He doesn’t let alone get close.

He nods once, then checks his watch like he’s closing a file. “She’s not what she seems. That’s all you need to know.”

“That’s not enough,” I snap. “You’re asking us to walk into this blind.”

“I’m telling you it doesn’t matter. What she was to me has no—never mind. She’s an asset, or a threat. Likely both, but we need her. That’s all you need to know.”

There is no way I’m letting this go.

Then he straightens. “We move in thirty. Gear up. No mistakes.”

As Caterina and I load our weapons, she casts a glance toward Tristan.

“He’s hiding something,” she murmurs, low enough only I can hear.

“He always is.” I cinch my holster. “I know more about him than anyone alive. And still, he finds ways to blindside me.”

“Secrets get people killed.”

I nod once. “Yeah. But tonight, we can trust him. He would never do anything to harm us.”

Caterina nods, jaw tight. “Then let’s hope it’s enough.”

“It has to be,” I say, grabbing my pack and heading for the door. “Stay close.”

She rolls her eyes, swiping a third dagger from the table and sliding it somewhere beneath her jacket. I should be thinking tactics, exits, escape routes. Instead, I’m watching her fingers and imagining how she’d gut someone without breaking a sweat.

I’m sunk. Deep. Drowning in her.

“You stay close,” she fires back, eyes glinting. “I’m the killer, remember?”

I close the space between us in one step. No armor. No pretense. Just two people neck-deep in violence and heat and something that looks a hell of a lot like compulsion.

“So am I, baby. You just haven’t seen that side of me yet.”

Cat bites her lip and I nearly lose it. One more inch and I’d have her against the wall, those knives clattering to the floor, her name dragging from my mouth like a prayer.

I’m fucked.

No, worse… I’m cooked.

On my knees for a woman who makes violence look like ballet.

The warehouse district is all shadows and silence—quiet in a way that feels wrong. Streetlights flicker over cracked pavement, casting twitchy, unreliable light. We move low, Tristan’s voice crackles steady in my earpiece.

“North quadrant clear. You two head to the entry point. Keira’s expected in five.”

The air smells like rust, salt, and old metal—an industrial graveyard pressed against the docks. If this goes sideways, we’re alone. No reinforcements. No backup.

Just us and whatever waits in the dark.

But I’m not thinking about that.

I’m thinking about Zoe.

About Dominik.

About the woman we came to save.

I was the golden boy once but my sister wasn’t so lucky.

Zoe took the beatings. The blame. The fallout.

And I wasn’t there to stop it. But Dom’s mom was.

No blood tie. No obligation. Just pure and undeserved kindness.

She stepped in when I stepped away. Now she’s the one in the crosshairs. And if we’re too late…

That’s not an option.

Tristan’s voice cuts through my earpiece. “Perimeter’s mine. You two handle Keira. Keep her breathing. No improvising.”

I glance at Caterina. Her face is stone. Eyes forward. We fall into rhythm—silent signals, matched steps, smooth precision. Like we’ve done this a hundred times.

We haven’t. That’s what makes it worse.

This kind of ease? It shouldn’t exist. It’s addictive.

We break off, each slipping into opposite flanks of the dockyard’s maze. Steel containers, crates, and stacked pallets forming a tight grid of blind corners and ambush points.

From my side, I catch a glimpse of her moving low, blade in hand. There’s no seduction in it. No drama. Just raw, efficient movement. Beauty in its truest form.

Goddamn, she’s stunning.

I can’t take stop admiring her.

“She’s good,” Tristan mutters in my ear, amused. “Better than you, Jackson. I might keep her.”

“First you joke about my sister. Now my wife? Do you want to die?”

“Please. You’d never get rid of me.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Shut up and keep your eyes on the target.” Tristan chuckles, but I don’t miss the thread of tension underneath. He’s keeping it light, but we all feel it.

I crouch behind a stack of pallets, watching the warehouse. There is no activity. Just one dim flicker of light near the center window.

Wrong kind of quiet. Not the safe kind.

My grip tightens around my gun. “Tristan, any movement on your end?”

“Negative. East side is clear.”

“Too clear,” I mutter, scanning the open drop zone. “Caterina, hold your position. Something’s off.”

“But I’m exposed out here. This setup’s bullshit. Keira wouldn’t choose this spot. She’s not stupid.”

Before I can respond, Keira appears—just as Tristan said. Alone. Nervous. Moving slow. Caterina ghosts into position behind her, silent as a breath. The faint glint of steel flashes at her side.

I step out of cover, cutting off Keira’s path.

“There you are.”

Keira spins fast, panic flares in her eyes but it’s off. Too rehearsed. Like she expected us to jump out. She turns to run, but freezes as Caterina’s blade touches her back.

“Don’t…you’ll never make it,” Cat warns.

“How did you find me?”

“We had help.” I smile, screwing the silencer tighter onto my weapon. It’s already locked in place, but I do it anyway because I want her to see it. Her throat bobs, eyes narrowing.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re both fucked either way.”

“Where is Ms. Lewis?” Caterina ignores the bait.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the crap, Keira. We know?—”

Keira turns to me, smiling like a secret with a blade behind it. “They’re not here for me, Jackson. They’re here for you.”

CRACK .

A gunshot tears through the darkness, deafening at close range. Keira twists away as the whole world explodes around us.

“Ambush!” Tristan’s voice roars in my ear. “Northeast corner—move!”

“Get down!” I yell, just as Caterina throws Keira aside. Another shot slams into the container behind her, sparking metal and fire.

I dive behind cover, heart jackhammering in my chest.

Where the fuck did they come from?

“Caterina! Forget her—get over here!”

Static hisses back.

No .

“Caterina!”

I don’t think. I run.

Bullets scream past me, tearing through air, pinging off crates and steel. Concrete splinters. Something slices my shoulder.

I don’t stop.

I can’t lose her.

Not now. Not like this.

“Aaron, stay down!”

“I have to get to her!” I snarl, weaving between crates. Every step numbs the pain. Every breath burns.

Another shot. A cry—sharp and human.

Keira.

I catch her out of the corner of my eye. Her shoulder is bloodied as she drags herself behind a forklift.

“Keira’s hit!”

“I’m on it,” Tristan calls out.

Where the fuck is she?

I’m still scanning for her when I round the corner and freeze.

“Cat!”

Three armed men advance toward a stack of crates, where a flash of movement reveals Caterina—trapped, outnumbered, but poised for attack.

Without hesitation, I draw my weapon and fire twice.

The first man drops instantly, a clean shot through the chest. The second spins toward me, returning fire. Bullets shriek past as I dive behind a metal container, breath ragged, ears ringing.

The third man rounds on Caterina.

“On your three!” I shout.

She moves like lightning. A blur. Her blade catches the light. The man never sees it coming. She pivots. Strikes again. Too fast to track. His body hits the ground. She turns, her eyes lock with mine.

And in that split second my entire body feels raw, pure relief.

But that second costs us.

A sharp crack rings through the air. I lunge forward, desperate to shield her. A heavy body collides with mine, slamming me violently to the ground.

Gunfire distorts into static, distant and wrong, like it’s echoing from underwater. My vision fractures. Colors drain. Edges smear and ripple.

My muscles won’t obey. All I feel is the wet warmth blooming across my side, the iron stench of blood thick in my throat. The cold creeps in fast, curling through my limbs, pulling me under.

And then I see my wife.

Standing in the alley’s mouth, still as death, bathed in smoke and broken light. Her silhouette burns behind my eyes, black against the chaos.

Blood streaks her hands. Her clothes. Her throat.

No.

She isn’t moving.

She isn’t breathing.

I reach but the alley stretches on, endless.

No, God, no.

I blink hard but the image doesn’t change. It’s not a hallucination.

She just stands there, frozen in time like someone took the air out of her lungs and turned her to glass.

My heart convulses. I try to scream her name but nothing comes out. Just wet choking and the rush of my own failing breath.

I try to crawl my way toward her, but the alley stretches impossibly long, pulling me further away as each second ticks by.

This is what loss actually feels like.

Not death.

Her absence.

My blood doesn’t matter. My body doesn’t matter. None of it means anything if she’s not here.

If she’s not still mine.

I’d take a thousand bullets. I’d bleed out smiling. If it meant Caterina was still standing.

Still whole.

Still alive.