"You better." She tries to smile but it doesn't quite land. "Chesca's going to want to show you that butterfly."
"I know."
"And I'm going to want—" She breaks off, shakes her head. "Just come back."
I kiss her forehead. Let my lips linger there for a moment longer than necessary.
"Cole?" Chesca's voice cuts through. Small hand tugging my jacket. "Can I show you my new butterfly later? I made one with purple paper."
My daughter.
I crouch down to her level. "Yeah, Hime. Show me when I get back."
She nods. Releases my jacket and returns to her game. I watch her settle back onto the floor with Aaron Bear tucked against her side and her controller already in hand. Vanessa catches my eye and gives me a barely perceptible nod.I've got her.
Angelina and I move toward the corridor.
"I need to grab gear. I'll come back through before I leave."
We take the elevator down one level. C2. The team is still there, monitors casting blue light across tactical displays, everyone very focused on their screens.
I stop Angelina near the door.
My hands frame her face. Her breath catches. Mandarin and rose and something warm underneath.
I kiss her like I'm memorizing her.
She kisses me back and holds on too long. Her fingers grip my jacket with desperate strength.
Behind us, Jax becomes extremely interested in a monitor displaying absolutely nothing critical.
I pull back. Her eyes are wet.
"I'll be back."
"You better be."
I walk out.
My boots echo on concrete as I pass the equipment lockers and the armory. I stop long enough to grab what I need: suppressor, backup piece, zip ties, gloves.
My motorcycle is waiting.
twenty-five
Cole
The minibar hums.
I have counted the cycles. Fourteen minutes, forty-three seconds between compressor activations. The sound fills the penthouse suite like a mechanical heartbeat, predictable and indifferent to what is about to happen in this room.
Adrian's cologne saturates everything, thick enough to taste. The scent clings to the chair leather beneath me, to the air itself, marking territory he thinks belongs to him.
He thinks this is his safe space. Diplomatic immunity. His father's money. None of it matters tonight.
I sit in shadow. Chair angled toward the door, positioned between the bathroom's golden light-stripe and the floor-to-ceiling windows where San Francisco glitters forty-eight floors below. My breathing stays even. Four counts in. Hold. Four counts out. The same rhythm I have used in eight countries, through operations that required hours of absolute stillness. Waiting is not difficult when you know what waits at the end.
His suitcase lies open on the bed, clothes spilling out. Silk shirts, Italian leather shoes, everything expensive and nothing folded properly. The laptop on the desk sleeps, screen dark. Two minibar bottles stand empty on the counter. Gin. The man drinks gin at eight in the evening while plotting to take my daughter.