Code Name: Reaper (K19 Allied Intelligence Team Two Book 5), page 6
The drive through Surrey’s countryside should have been calming. Rolling green hills stretched in every direction, dotted with sheep and divided by ancient stone walls. The kind of postcard-perfect English landscape that usually helped me decompress after difficult missions.
Instead, every mile increased the tension crackling between us in the SUV’s confined space. Amaryllis stared out the window, her body rigid, radiating displeasure. I could feel her irritation even without looking directly at her.
“You’re being an ass,” she finally said.
“Am I?”
“Yes. Ever since we got off the plane, you’ve been snapping at me for breathing.”
She wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “Maybe you’re too sensitive.”
“Or maybe you’re taking your frustration out on me because I’m an easy target.”
I scoffed. “You’re anything but easy, babe.”
“Blame me again, like any of this is my fault.”
I shot her a sideways look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You kissed me.”
“And you said you hated me.” Jesus. I sounded like a ten-year-old kid. Why was I arguing with her about it when all I wanted to do was pull over and do the same thing I’d done that night—kiss the fuck out of her? “Nothing can happen between us,” I added, wondering if the rejection would even faze her.
“Do you think that’s what I want?”
“I don’t know, but this job? It doesn’t leave room for complications.”
“So I’m a complication now?”
“Yes. No. Fuck.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I don’t know what you are.”
The property’s gates came into view, wrought-iron barriers that had protected the Trace family’s privacy for generations. The familiar sight should have brought relief, but Amaryllis tensed up beside me as we passed through the entrance.
“Oh my God.” She stared up at the Georgian manor house that dominated the landscape ahead. “This is where you’ve been working?”
“Home sweet home.” I watched her take in every detail of the scale of the wealth on display. “Everything okay?”
“It’s fine.” But she was gripping the door handle like she was preparing to bolt.
I studied her as we approached the house’s entrance. Her stiff posture was obvious, as was the way her breathing had become shallow and controlled. This wasn’t discomfort. This was something deeper, more visceral.
She held herself like a cornered animal calculating escape routes. Her eyes darted from window to window, as if she was cataloging potential exits and threats. Whatever was going on in her head, it had nothing to do with the manor’s grandeur and everything to do with something that scared the hell out of her.
I started to ask her about it, then decided not to. I wasn’t her fucking boyfriend. I wasn’t even her friend. She was a pain in the ass whom I’d had to go rescue in Berlin, and had she even thanked me? Hell no, she’d bitched at me for interfering. If it weren’t for me, she’d probably be dead. The FSB would’ve found her and killed her, and then what would happen? She probably would’ve haunted me from the grave until I gave in and looked for Mercury on my own. Schmuck that I was.
“I’d love to know what you’re thinking about.”
The tone was casual, but I sensed the undercurrent—curiosity mixed with wariness, like she was testing the waters.
“The hell, you do,” I snapped.
Before she could say anything else, repeat she hated that she’d wanted the kiss between us—in the same way I did—I gave her a taste of her own medicine. “Don’t,” I said like she had to me in Germany.
I wouldn’t allow myself to look at her. I was too afraid of what I’d see. Anger, hurt, and desire I couldn’t allow myself to care about.
By the time we reached the front door, the metaphorical distance between us was miles wide. I couldn’t wait to escape, to get away from her and return to the familiar territory the mansion represented. Safety, routine, and work I understood. She represented chaos and complications I wasn’t equipped to handle.
But then I noticed her discomfort had gotten worse. More than that. I could swear she wanted to bolt. Whatever was triggering her reaction to this place, she was struggling, and despite everything, I couldn’t walk away from that. So instead of looking for my brother to give him a piece of my mind, I stuck around and made introductions.
The entryway was typical of Georgian architecture—soaring ceilings, elaborate crown molding, furniture that cost more than most people made in a year. Amaryllis took it in with the same look she’d worn when facing down Russian operatives.
“Reaper!” I heard a familiar call fill the space, then saw the woman who said it. “Well, I’ll be damned. You actually brought her here in one piece.”
“Wren Whittaker. Coalition intelligence coordinator. Former NSA, so you two speak the same language. Wren, meet Charity Beaudoin—Amaryllis.”
When Wren stepped forward with her arms open for a hug, I watched Amaryllis bristle. Wren, to her credit, read the signs and switched to extending her hand instead.
“I’ve heard a lot about your work.” Amaryllis’ voice sounded weaker than what I was used to. Admittedly, Wren was bigger than life.
“All good, I hope.” Her smile was genuine, warm in a way that reminded me why everyone on the team gravitated toward her. “Nice to have another NSA-er on the team. You know, the experts.” Wren winked.
I saw some of the rigidity leave Amaryllis’s shoulders at the mention of their shared experience. The validation of being called an expert by someone of Wren’s reputation seemed to ground her.
Before she could respond, sounds echoed from the main sitting area.
“Amaryllis?” Delfino’s voice came from across the room. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“There she is,” Hornet called out, rushing to greet her too.
“Thank God you’re safe.” Delfino embraced her. “Wren reported the NSA presumed you were dead. Then, when Reaper got your message, we knew you were in deep trouble.”
“Deeper than I realized at the time. Good to see you, Delfino.” I watched as another transformation took place. Amaryllis’s defensive walls didn’t merely lower—they crumbled. The hug between the two women was as warm and natural as if they’d known each other their whole lives.
“Welcome.” Hornet stepped up and hugged her. “When Reaper read your intel about Prism, all I could think was you’re as badass as Delfino and I thought you were from the day we met you.”
Her cheeks flushed with his praise. “Or seriously stupid. Jury’s still out.”
Delfino took Amaryllis’ hand in hers. “We were so worried.”
“I’m sorry, but I had to stay dark. Too many people were looking for me, and I wasn’t sure who to trust.”
“But you trust us.” Delfino phrased it as a statement, not a question.
“With my life.”
The simple words struck me harder than they should have. I found myself studying the easy way she interacted with them—the genuine warmth, the dropped barriers, the way her whole body language changed from defensive to open. It was a side of her I’d glimpsed but never seen fully displayed, and it stung. She hadn’t known them longer than me, and she appreciated them. When I arrived in Berlin, she wasn’t happy to see me; she was pissed.
I was about to walk away when Nemesis entered the room. Her presence immediately commanded the attention of all those present. “Sorry to interrupt everyone, but now that Reaper and Amaryllis have arrived, there will be a full-team briefing in fifteen.”
After making the announcement, she approached us.
“Nemesis,” said Wren. “I don’t believe you’ve met Amaryllis.”
They shook hands, and Nem welcomed her, saying she was looking forward to her Aldrich debrief. “As we’ll also be discussing Mercury, your insight will be invaluable.”
“Amaryllis will need a secure cell and tablet, along with a laptop,” I interjected.
“I do?” she asked.
“In case you’re being tracked,” I reminded her quietly.
“Shall we get started?” Nemesis walked to the front of the room. “Prior to proceeding with individual debriefings and assignment distribution, I’d like to do a review of where we are, so everyone is on the same page.”
She gestured toward the holographic display behind her. “As this mission moves from prelim to full throttle, I want everyone aware of what we’re facing.” Those around the room nodded in acknowledgment. “As most of you know, Operation Argead was a global corruption network that infiltrated international intelligence agencies and laundered millions while systematically murdering anyone who threatened to expose them. Any questions?” She glanced around, but no one spoke up.
The display shifted, showing a new organizational structure overlaid with Russian state symbols. “SMO Romanov picked up where Argead left off, but this is not like any other criminal network. Russia’s FSB recognized an opportunity to evolve Argead’s remnants into something more formidable.”
She clicked on the surveillance footage of diplomatic convoys. “Unlike the previous network’s reliance on individual corrupt officials, Romanov operates with full protection from the Kremlin, including diplomatic immunity. They have a centralized command structure directed from Moscow and can leverage FSB’s sophisticated counterintelligence capabilities.”
Nemesis’ expression darkened. “But instead of laundering money, they’re trafficking intelligence assets—scientists, diplomats, military personnel—staging disappearances and extracting sensitive information before either eliminating the targets or converting them into long-term assets. We, the coalition, were assigned this mission because they’re systematically trafficking these assets across international borders.”
I glanced at Amaryllis, whose spine was perfectly straight as she absorbed every detail.
“Which brings us to our current situation,” she continued. “We have two high-priority targets—Dr. Eleanor Aldrich, code name Prism and founder of Minerva Protocol, who has been collaborating with the Russians, and Dr. Lyra Carrington, code name Mercury, who disappeared while allegedly investigating an NSA security breach.”
She clicked on a new display showing mission parameters. “Our objectives are threefold. First is to take down SMO Romanov and rescue the missing diplomats and operatives they’ve trafficked.
“Second, to locate Dr. Aldrich. Based on surveillance evidence gathered by Agent Beaudoin, we know Aldrich met with Nikolai Vasiliev and has been feeding him sensitive intelligence. Our hope is that, if we can bring her in, she might be willing to turn state’s evidence against the network in exchange for consideration.”
When a new set of mission parameters appeared, Amaryllis’ focus intensified.
“Third, locate Dr. Carrington, code name Mercury. She disappeared seven months ago during an op in Montenegro. At present, we’re unsure whether she’s in hiding, captured, working with Romanov, or deceased. What we do know is that she possesses critical information that we cannot allow to fall into enemy hands. Previous but unconfirmed intelligence suggests she might be at the Western Naval Base in Odesa.”
Nemesis’s expression hardened. “These objectives are interconnected. Finding one may lead us to the others. And time is not on our side.”
When what was on the screen changed again, she looked between Wren and Amaryllis.
“The two of you will lead the team searching for Mercury. Amaryllis, you’re the best person to craft the mission, based on your past experience as well as the intel you gathered on Prism.”
“Roger that, ma’am,” she responded.
“Delfino and Hornet, you’re responsible for deepening the investigation into Minerva Protocol. The specific objective will be to gather intelligence on their structure, identify any other compromised members, as well as determine if locating Prism should be a joint mission.”
She turned to me. “You and Blackjack will be in charge of the team focusing on Romanov’s operational network—tracking Vasiliev’s movements, mapping their trafficking routes, and coordinating rescue ops for the missing assets.
“Any questions at this time?” Nemesis asked. After no one spoke up, she continued. “I’ll repeat that time is not on our side. The other thing we need to take into consideration is that there are people in this room who may already be on the FSB’s radar, which will impact active deployment.”
Several people murmured their agreement.
“If there’s nothing else, let’s get to work. Ares and I are available to float between teams as needed.”
As the briefing broke up, I remained, watching Amaryllis collect her materials.
Without so much as a glance at me, she walked out of the room with Wren, their heads bent in discussion. She’d forgotten all about me—the guy who’d saved her life. I watched the door long after they’d disappeared, hating how worried I was about her emotional state and what she might find when she located Mercury.
Finally, I rolled my shoulders and looked around the empty space. I needed to get the hell out of here. I stalked out of the entryway I’d walked through less than an hour ago, not knowing where I was going, only that I couldn’t remain where Amaryllis was behind a door I wasn’t welcome to enter. Both literally and metaphorically.
The grounds of the estate stretched for acres in every direction, and I followed the main path toward the stables, breathing in the crisp English air that usually helped clear my mind.
The familiar surroundings should have centered me. I’d spent weeks here over the past year and knew every trail and building on the property. This was as close to home as I had in the intelligence world.
Moments from the past few days replayed with every step I took. The tunnel kiss, Amaryllis’ flushed face on the plane, the way she’d trusted me enough to share intelligence about Prism. Behind every thought was the growing certainty that whatever was building between us was going to end badly for both of us.
“Brooding again?”
Blackjack’s tone came from behind me. I didn’t turn around, didn’t want to see whatever look he was wearing. Probably that knowing smirk he got when he thought he’d figured out something I hadn’t.
“Not now, Bishop.”
“When, then?” He fell into step beside me, matching my pace. “You’re wound tighter than a Swiss watch, my brother.”
I shot him a look that reiterated that now wasn’t the time for him to give me any shit about anything.
“I’m here to offer some brotherly advice.”
I stopped walking and turned to face him. “Advice?” I snapped at him. “First, you wanna tell me what the fuck you were thinking when you rented that cottage?”
“I was thinking my brother is losing his goddamn mind over a woman and needs to do something about it.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He held up a hand to forestall my denial. “You chased her across half of Europe for days, broke every rule in the book getting her out of Berlin, and you’ve been coiled like a fucking jack-in-the-box since you walked into the command center.”
“She’s a colleague—”
Blackjack’s laugh was sharp. “Right. And I’m the damn pope.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is you two need to either fuck or fight. All this pussyfooting around is getting you nowhere.”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m serious.”
When I started walking again, he did too.
“The bullshit arguments and the sexual tension so thick you could cut it with a knife are keeping you from doing your job—do something about it.”
My eyes flared. “You’re questioning my work ethic?”
“You know better than that.”
When we reached the stable complex, we leaned against the split-rail fence and watched the horses graze in the pasture. The Andalusians were beautiful animals—intelligent, powerful, and bred for endurance and loyalty. I wanted to smack myself when my first thought was how much Amaryllis would appreciate them.
“Even if anything you said was true, which it’s not, she’s made it clear she’s not interested in anything personal,” I argued.
“Has she? Or is she scared shitless of getting attached to someone who might disappear on her like everyone else in her life?”
I felt the air leave my lungs in the same way it would if he’d punched me in the gut. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means she’s lost everyone who mattered to her. Parents, grandparents, now her mentor. Do you think maybe she’s protecting herself from caring about someone else who might vanish?”
I considered that. Amaryllis’s fierce independence, her resistance to accepting help, her automatic defensive responses when things got too personal—they could all stem from a lifetime of abandonment and loss.
“Even if you’re right, what am I supposed to do about it?”
“Stop being a fucking idiot. Stop arguing with her about everything. Stop pretending you don’t want to strip her naked and fuck her senseless.”
The crude honesty was pure Blackjack, and it made me want to punch him and thank him at the same time.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why the hell not?”
Because she wasn’t someone I could have sex with to get her out of my system. She was more than that. The realization formed before I could stop it, but I managed to keep my mouth shut.
But it was true. Amaryllis wasn’t a one-night stand or a casual hookup. She was brilliant, complicated, and damaged in ways that made me want to protect her even when she was perfectly capable of defending herself. She challenged me intellectually, matched me in the field, and made me question assumptions I’d held for years.
“She’s good for you, Kingston. I watched you in that briefing room. She challenges you.”
“She argues with everything I say.”
“Because she’s your equal. When’s the last time you met someone who wasn’t intimidated by your reputation or your family’s money?”
The honest answer was never. Most women I’d met either worked in the intelligence community—which created its own complications—or outside of it entirely, which made real relationships impossible. Amaryllis was different. She worked in my world but wasn’t dependent on my contacts or reputation. She had her own skills, her own network, her own agendas.
