Code Name: Reaper (K19 Allied Intelligence Team Two Book 5), page 3
Something shifted in his expression—raw fury that made my pulse spike for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.
“You don’t need saving?” He moved closer. Close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his body. “You call FSB assassins arriving within the next few minutes ‘not needing saving’? Or hiding in safe houses while sending cryptic messages ‘handling it’? Sweetheart, if I have to put you in handcuffs and throw you over my shoulder to get you out of here alive, I will. Don’t test me.”
The endearment hit like a slap. “Don’t you dare call me—”
An alert sounded on my laptop. Motion sensors triggered.
“Fuck.” I glanced at the display. Three figures moved through the garden. Different approach patterns from Reaper’s route. “They’re here.”
“I told you.” Reaper was busy readying weapons. The way his hands moved—steady and controlled—sent an unwanted shiver down my spine. “Three minutes was optimistic.”
Glass shattered in the front room. Coordinated breach—multiple entry points. These weren’t amateurs.
Heavy boots hit the hardwood floor below. Voices in Russian, sharp and efficient.
“How many?” I whispered as adrenaline overrode my anger.
Reaper went still and silent. “Small team. Four at the most. They want this quiet.”
Footsteps pounded on the stairs. They were coming up fast.
“Fire escape.” Reaper moved toward the bedroom window.
I grabbed my laptop bag and weapon. “They’ll have it covered.”
“Better than staying here.”
The first Russian appeared at the top of the stairs. I put two rounds dead center before he could raise his pistol. The body slunk to the floor.
“Contact!” someone shouted in accented English.
Reaper reached the window and looked down. “Two more in the alley, but it’s our only way out.”
More footsteps pounded up the stairs. The remaining team was almost here.
“Jump! I’ll cover you!” Reaper shouted.
“Are you insane?”
Gunfire erupted from the hallway behind us. No choice now.
“Move!” Reaper kicked out the window screen and stepped onto the metal platform.
I followed him out the window, and we clattered down the stairs as fast as we could.
Bullets sparked off the grating around us when the Russians in the alley opened fire.
“Jump from here!” Reaper shouted when we reached the second-floor landing.
Two stories down onto wet pavement. I hit hard and rolled across the alley. Reaper landed beside me and pulled both of us to our feet.
“Motorcycle!” He pointed to a black BMW at the alley mouth. “Let’s go!”
We ran as bullets hit the concrete inches from our feet as we raced toward it.
Reaper kicked on the engine of the bike he must’ve arrived on. His muscles flexed under his gear. “German intelligence response is five minutes out!”
I climbed on behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist.
The bike launched forward. Behind us, automatic weapon fire lit up the night as the FSB agents poured from inside the building.
“Left!” I spotted a roadblock ahead. “They’ve got the main streets!”
Reaper’s knee nearly scraped the pavement as he leaned into a turn that defied physics, and shot onto a narrow side alley.
Bullets whined off brick walls inches from our heads as we weaved through the streets.
“Subway!” Reaper pointed ahead of us.
He skidded to a stop at the entrance. We abandoned the bike and raced down the concrete steps into the tunnel system.
“Run!” Reaper grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the maintenance corridors.
Footsteps echoed from behind. Heavy boots. At least three hostiles on our tails.
We squeezed into a narrow maintenance passage, pressed together in the confined space. I could feel his heartbeat, fast and hard.
Flashlights swept the main tunnel, and voices shouted orders in Russian. They were more now, spreading out, searching systematically.
We pressed deeper into the shadows when a beam of light drifted past our hiding spot. The voices faded as the team moved beyond our position.
We stood there in the dark, breathing hard, facing each other. The adrenaline, the fury, the electricity between us—it was all still there, crackling in the air.
“You should have left me.” My voice was raw with anger mixed with terror.
“Like hell.” His words were rough, dangerous. “You think I’d let them put a bullet in your head?”
“I specifically told you to save Mercury first, and you ignored me!”
“You want to hate me for saving your life? Fine. Hate me.”
“I do hate you.” The words came out breathless and unconvincing.
Reaper’s body pressed against mine. His hands fisted in my hair, and his mouth crashed into mine. I returned his kiss with everything I had—all the rage and terror burning through my veins.
“I hate you,” I repeated. “I fucking hate you.”
“Yeah, babe, I hate you too,” he said before he thrust his tongue inside my mouth, making my traitorous body lean harder into his.
4
REAPER
What the hell had just happened?
I stayed close to the wall as we crept farther into the tunnels, listening to the Russian voices fade as the search team moved past our hiding spot. My heart hammered against my ribs, but not from the adrenaline of nearly getting killed. No, this was entirely different. Amaryllis had kissed me too.
With death breathing down our necks, her hands had fisted in my jacket, her body had pressed against mine, and for those few seconds, the world had narrowed to her mouth and the way she’d responded to my touch.
She’d said she hated me, then kissed me like her life depended on it.
The contradiction made my head spin. I could still taste her on my lips, still feel the way she’d melted into me before the ice maven I knew returned. What did she hate? Me or the fact that she wanted it as much as I had?
Behind me, I heard her short, controlled bursts of breath that told me she was fighting for composure. Good. At least I wasn’t the only one rattled.
Focus. Mission first, sort out the rest later.
I waited another thirty seconds, then motioned for her to follow around the next bend. As we squeezed through another narrow passage, my body was hyperaware of every time she brushed against me.
We emerged from the tunnel system onto the dark Berlin streets. Streetlights cast long shadows across empty sidewalks, and the distant hum of late-night traffic echoed off concrete buildings. The city had that hollow quality of deep night, when most people were asleep, save for the insomniacs and shift workers still moving through Kreuzberg’s urban maze.
Amaryllis avoided eye contact as she stepped out beside me. She crossed her arms over her chest, as if she could create a physical barrier even though we stood only inches apart.
The movement frustrated me more than it should have. One minute, she was in my arms; the next, she’d transformed into ice.
I scanned the street for threats while fighting the urge to stare at her mouth. It was empty except for a delivery truck that rumbled down a parallel street. We needed to move, get transportation, and put space between us and the safe house in advance of the Russians expanding their search grid.
“We need a vehicle.”
She moved toward a compact parked at the curb. “There.”
“We’re not stealing another one.”
Amaryllis raised a brow. “Another? Don’t tell me the holier-than-thou Reaper took something that didn’t belong to him.” The challenge in her voice brought a strange sense of relief. This, I could handle. Arguing was familiar territory.
“We’ll take the train,” I suggested.
“Slower.”
“Safer.”
“Speed matters more than safety right now.”
The woman who’d escaped a kill team minutes ago was ready to hot-wire a car like it was any other average day. Part of me was impressed. The other part wanted to shake her until she showed some sense of self-preservation.
“We need to stay mobile,” she continued, splitting her attention between me and scanning for threats.
“We find a safe house, regroup, and get proper support.”
“We’re not calling in the cavalry for a simple extraction.”
“Simple?” The word came out sharper than I’d intended. “We fought our way out of a coordinated breach with multiple hostiles carrying automatic weapons. In what universe is that simple?”
She shot me a look that could have melted steel. “The universe where I’ve been handling myself perfectly fine for nine days without your help.”
There it was. The independence thing again. Her default response to any situation was to handle it alone, trust no one, and rely on herself. I recognized the pattern, even if I didn’t understand what had created it.
Before I could respond, my asset rounded the corner in the right make, model, and color sedan. Right on time. He jumped out and took off in the opposite direction without giving us the chance to thank or identify him.
“If you’d gone with my plan, we could’ve saved ten minutes,” Amaryllis muttered as we approached the car.
“Or gotten arrested.”
“I drive,” she said, trying to scoot around me.
“Like hell,” I shot at her.
“I know the area better.”
“My asset.”
We stared at each other. The same battle for control we’d been fighting since Montenegro, played out over who got behind the wheel. But it felt different. Every interaction carried an undercurrent of tension that had nothing to do with mission security and everything to do with the way her lips had moved against mine. When I got to the driver’s side first and climbed in, she retreated to the passenger side, then slammed the door harder than necessary.
The first hour passed in stilted conversation about routes and immediate security concerns. She navigated while I drove, both of us maintaining a rigid separation despite the forced proximity. But I noticed everything—the way she held her cell, how she shifted in her seat, the scent of her shampoo mixing with the adrenaline still coursing through my system.
The city gradually gave way to the countryside as we distanced ourselves from Berlin. Occasional headlights passed in the opposite direction, but mostly, we had the road to ourselves in the early morning hours.
“Head south at the next intersection.” She traced a route with her finger.
“Why south?”
“More options in that direction.”
“We need a safe house first. Somewhere to regroup.”
“We need to stay mobile.”
The same argument we’d been having since we met, only with different words. Her insistence on independence versus my preference for proper backup and resources.
“You can’t run forever,” I muttered.
“Watch me.”
I glanced at her profile, noting the stubborn set of her jaw. “This is bigger than what we can handle alone.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
Always we, I noticed. Even when she was pushing me away, rejecting help, and insisting she didn’t need anyone. Some part of her had already accepted that we were a team, whether she wanted to admit it or not.
We stopped for fuel an hour later at a twenty-four-hour station, the first real pause since our escape. Everything felt awkward—like if we dared look at each other, we’d both be forced to acknowledge that kiss.
While she went inside to get coffee, I sent a text to Blackjack with my coordinates and a request to find us somewhere safe to stop for a few hours.
I watched her through the convenience store window, studying the way she moved. Alert but not paranoid, competent without being showy. She caught me looking and turned away quickly, but not before I saw the heat flushing her cheeks. The same awareness that was driving me crazy.
“Don’t.”
The word came out of nowhere as we returned to the car.
My mouth gaped. “Don’t what?”
“Just don’t.”
I studied her, looking for clues about what she meant. Don’t mention the kiss? Don’t look at her like that? Don’t make this more complicated than it already was?
“Fine,” I said, though I had no idea what I’d agreed to.
Once on the road, we were forced to share intelligence. Her intel about Prism’s surveillance network painted a picture of betrayal that went deeper than either of us had realized. My reluctance to discuss Jekyll’s final words was obvious, but she didn’t push. We were both keeping secrets, dancing around the implications of what we’d learned.
“We need more resources—”
“Resources come with oversight. Oversight means compromise. Compromise means too much risk,” she clapped at me.
I understood her logic, even if I didn’t agree with it. Someone had burned her in the past—probably more than once—and now, she defaulted to isolation as a survival mechanism. The irony was that her independence made her more vulnerable, not less.
The safe house my brother had arranged was a small cottage in Königstein, nothing fancy but secure. Dawn had started to hint at the eastern horizon as we pulled up and parked.
The moment we walked through the door, the arguments that had become second nature picked right back up. We spat at each other about perimeter checks, communication protocols, and watch schedules.
She moved toward the equipment. “I’ll handle the tech setup.”
“I’ve got it.”
“I’m better with electronics.”
“Says who?”
Irritation flashed on her face when she turned to me. “Says the person who’s been running solo missions for months.”
“Running from problems isn’t the same as solving them.”
Her expression shuttered at the harshness in my words and tone. “That isn’t what I meant, and you know it.” Her voice sounded deliberately flat. “I’ll check the perimeter.”
She was gone before I could argue. I stared at the empty doorway, wondering when everything had gotten so complicated. A week ago, I’d been hunting for a missing operative. Now, I was stuck in a safe house with a woman who made me question every decision I’d ever made about keeping my personal life and work separate.
By the time she returned inside, I’d set up the communication gear and completed a threat assessment on the property.
“Hungry?” I asked, more to break the silence than anything else.
She moved toward the small kitchen, opening cabinets and assessing what we had to work with. “I can make breakfast.”
“When’s the last time you actually cooked a meal?”
She shot me a look over her shoulder. “When’s the last time you prepared anything that wasn’t an MRE?”
“You think I can’t cook? I’ll show you.” God, I was tired of her assumptions about my capabilities. That I believed in getting support when needed didn’t mean I was helpless on my own.
I moved into the kitchen, claiming the territory. The area was small enough that she had to step away, but she didn’t retreat entirely. Instead, she leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and watched me work.
“The heat’s too high,” she muttered as the oil I’d poured into a pan popped.
“It’s fine.” I dumped the container of chopped vegetables I’d found in the refrigerator into it.
“You’re going to burn them.”
“I’m not going to burn anything.” I turned the heat down anyway, which earned me a look indicating she’d noticed the concession.
She didn’t move fast enough when I reached around her for the eggs. For a moment, we were inches apart. Close enough for me to see her pulse jump in her throat and feel the heat radiating from her skin.
“Couldn’t you have asked me to move?”
“Could you not hover?” I shot at her when she continued supervising my every move.
“Could you not burn the place down?”
“I’m making breakfast, not conducting chemical warfare.”
“Debatable.”
I fought a smile despite the tension. Her dry humor caught me off guard, making me remember why I’d been drawn to her in the first place. She was brilliant and difficult and absolutely infuriating, but she was also funny as hell when she allowed herself to be.
The eggs overcooked while I was distracted, watching her lean against the far counter. She raised a brow but didn’t comment as she reached past me to turn down the heat. This time, she was the one who invaded my space when her arm brushed mine.
Neither of us moved away immediately.
“Better?” Her voice was quieter than it had been.
“Getting there.”
We weren’t talking about the eggs anymore.
She cleared her throat and retreated two steps, putting distance between us again. But the awareness lingered, electric and dangerous.
“This kitchen is surprisingly well equipped.”
“Blackjack took care of it.”
She raised a brow. “He stocks safe houses better than most five-star hotels.”
“He reminds me of our mother.”
Amaryllis chuckled, a sound I hadn’t heard very often. “Not something he’d take as a compliment, would be my guess.”
“You’d be right.”
We ate at the small table, forced into close quarters by the layout of the cottage. The meal became a work debrief that kept getting derailed by our physical proximity.
“So, your message…” I began.
“What about it?”
“Prism. What I don’t understand is how someone who created an organization designed to combat the very kind of treachery she’s doing could turn into the type of person she fought against?”
“Greed? I don’t know what else it could be, other than someone forcing her.”
“What about Mercury? Any leads?”
