Page 44

Hell, no. Her excuse was completely valid, if a lie.

She couldn’t imagine sitting in some dim restaurant with him, that intimacy, that temptation, something about him made her bones hum.

Like someone had struck a tuning fork against her soul and it hadn’t stopped vibrating since. That soft resonance? It terrified her.

He wasn’t dangerous because of his size.

Or his discipline. Or that voice that moved through her like smoke in her lungs.

He was dangerous because he looked at her too closely.

She’d always felt safe on the outside of the rez, manipulating other people’s lives and feelings but keeping her own hidden away.

She’d never felt threatened that someone might realize her ploy, and that Bear might have the ability made her feel too vulnerable.

Her scars were buried deep, and she had no desire to allow anyone close enough to unearth them. She wouldn’t allow it with him either.

She’d spent years exiling herself from anything that looked like belief, faith, or sacred ground.

Bear’s feet were planted in all three. He belonged to something she’d walked away from.

As a result, her relationships were mostly with neutral men, short-lived, with her ending things before they got too serious.

The urge was almost overwhelming, powerful. To touch such a man…but if she got too close? If she reached for him? What she left in the past would be the least of her worries.

Her jaw tightened. Focus, wí?ya? .

Her gaze flicked to camera twelve. Lobby entrance. Then camera four. Elevators. Normal traffic.

Wait —

She froze. Two men. Civilian casual. But it wasn’t their clothes that caught her eye. It was the way they moved. Tactical. Shoulders squared. Eyes scanning. Feet light. One luggage case each. Rolling, nondescript. Too small for tourists. Too precise for accidents.

Every instinct screamed. Something was wrong .

She straightened, voice clipped but calm. “Elevator group. Cameras four and twelve. The two with cases.”

Her security liaison, Ricardo Lopez, BOPE attached, turned his head. “You see something?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Those two.” She tapped keys fast, pulled the angles wide.

Ricardo narrowed his eyes. “Good instincts. You want to intercept?”

“Yes. Now. Quietly. Detain, don’t confront. Call the floor leads and alert their teams. I want BOPE on standby at the service entrances.”

The other analysts shifted, tension crackling.

Zorro stood near the hotel’s lobby entrance, leaning casually against the polished marble wall.

The briefing had been predictably tedious, and he was eager to get back to the BOPE compound in about three hours, gear up, and kick ass with his team.

He felt the need to reconnect, to feel anchored.

Pulling out his phone, he grinned faintly as he tapped out a quick message to Everly.

Survived Joker’s endless briefing. I think I deserve a medal just for staying awake.

He waited briefly, picturing the slight upward curve of her mouth as she read it.

Another thought came, playful and just provocative enough to make her roll her eyes.

So, have you decided what you’re wearing to our date tonight? Nothing…or nothing?

He chuckled softly, shaking his head at his own audacity. She’d definitely have something to say about that. He could practically hear her voice, gently exasperated yet quietly pleased.

Glancing up briefly, he noted the hotel guests filtering through the lobby, a few suitcases rolling, quiet chatter drifting past him. All normal.

His phone vibrated again in his palm.

Wow, subtle. Are those my only choices?

His smile widened into a slow smirk as he texted back immediately.

I’m open to negotiation, Dr. Quinn. Convince me.

He could almost picture her blush, her annoyed eyeroll, and the little smile she'd try and fail to hide.

Yeah, he liked this place they were in. Easy, playful.

Finally on the same page. See you soon. Bring your best negotiation tactics.

Then a flicker of movement back near the side exit, a man slipped inside, mid-thirties maybe, tall, built like someone who knew how to throw a punch and make it count.

Civilian clothes, tan slacks, dark blazer, and a conference lanyard.

But it wasn’t the badge that stopped Zorro’s breath.

It was the man’s face. Zorro’s jaw locked. No fucking way.

He recognized him instantly as the guy who had been casing BOPE’s compound yesterday. The one who had disappeared right before the perimeter sweep tightened.

He pocketed his phone smoothly, pulse steady, focused. The man turned, walking toward the far door again, slow and deliberate, just passing through —like hell.

Stepping away from the wall, he moved calmly, quietly, toward the man, who didn’t recognize Zorro.

Even better.

He was already pulling his phone from his back pocket. He pressed a contact.

“Go,” Joker answered immediately.

Zorro kept his voice low. Neutral. “Our friend from the BOPE compound just walked into the hotel. Dark blazer, tan slacks, buzzed on the sides. It’s him, LT. Same build. Same profile. I’m following.”

A beat of silence.

Then Joker’s voice dropped a degree. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. He was inside, making a quick sweep of the area. Didn’t stop. Casing the place too.”

“Copy. Keep on him, Martinez. Do not engage unless it escalates. I’ll loop in Captain Leite. He’s got a contingent of BOPE outside the hotel.”

Zorro’s jaw tightened. “Already on it.”

The call ended.

He followed the man down the corridor, casual, loose-limbed, just another medic stretching his legs between panels.

But inside?

Zorro was locked in.

Eyes sweeping everything, hallways, bystanders, exit points. Ears tuned to the sound of footsteps, voice fluctuations, the subtle cues of a man with a purpose.

He didn’t know what this bastard was doing here. But whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

Bailee’s eyes flicked between monitors. The suspicious men were moving slow and steady, not showing one smidgeon of anxiety. Her gut coiled tighter with every second.

“Security confirmed visuals,” Ricardo said beside her, adjusting the Bluetooth in his ear. “Your American DS guys are trailing the targets.”

She nodded once. “I want them detained now.”

Then the door opened.

Carlos Braga stepped inside. Brazilian intelligence. Attached to their BOPE coordination unit. Wore a diplomatic ID and a tailored jacket like armor. They’d worked side by side for three days. Quiet. Efficient. Sharp.

Bailee turned toward him. “We’ve got movement on a flagged pair of?—”

He didn’t blink. He pulled his weapon and shot both of his countrymen in the head .

Bailee was moving, her Glock already in her hand, returning fire before the bodies hit the floor in two sickening thuds. She dove, hit the floor, and rolled, fast and tight. Blood spattered across the edge of the consoles.

Carlos took cover, the gunfire precise as he clocked her movement. In a burst of successive shots to keep him pinned, she ran, slipping through the connecting door into the next room. She closed and locked the door, just before he sent his shoulder into it with a thud. Then she heard him swear.

Shit.

Her only chance was getting to her people in the hall. Where the hell were they? They had to hear her shots. She bolted toward the door as his shots splintered the wood behind her.

She had already thoroughly studied this floor, knew all the room layouts, where every exit led.

The door crashed open, and his next round punched into the doorframe as she shoulder-checked it open.

Then stopped dead, her aim set, both hands on the gun for stability.

The moment he showed his fucking face, she sent a volley of shots, and one of them hit as he cried out and clutched his arm.

The sound of her boots pounded on the rug as she sprinted through the narrow passage, sweat breaking cold along her spine.

What the hell just happened?

Carlos? The man who had eaten breakfast two feet from her. Who had watched security feeds beside her shoulder was now trying to kill her.

She reached the main hallway, slammed into it in a blur, and froze with horror.

Bodies.

Two DS agents slumped near the stairwell. Five BOPE officers scattered along the corridor, one against the wall, blood pooling at his hip. They hadn’t been disarmed. They’d been executed .

Not an opportunistic strike. Targeted. Bailee’s stomach turned cold. They’re going after the principals.

She pivoted hard, sprinting for the State Department suite three doors down. Her diplomats. She needed to get them out . But just as she hit the bend in the corridor, she heard it. Footsteps. Not running. Hunting. The smell of blood was gagging her.

Her heart stilled.

A voice echoed behind her, accent smooth. “Bailee.” It was him . Carlos. Walking. Measured. Like he had all the time in the world. Like she was already dead. She turned and ran in the other direction.

Just one command in her head, pulsing like blood in her ears?—

Hide.

She ducked into an alcove beside a linen cabinet and pressed her back to the wall, heart pounding. She tilted her head, tracking his approach through reflection in a framed emergency map.

Too slow, asshole.

When he cleared the bend, she moved?—

One foot pivoted out. Pistol up. She fired. Twice.

Carlos ducked, but not fast enough. Her first shot grazed his shoulder, sending him stumbling sideways behind a column. His answering fire cracked off the wall near her head. Dust exploded from plaster.

“Fuck,” she hissed, retreating low, crossing the hall to the next door.

She pulled out her master keycard that opened every door on this floor, including the elevator.

Green light and the door gave way. She slipped through, breathing hard, boots whispering over tile.

He was following. Slower now. Cautious. Wounded… twice. But alive.