Chapter 5

Nolan’s Pov

Mason hasn’t shut up about this job for six straight hours.

We’re down in the bunker, concrete walls, no windows, racks of rifles gleaming under LED strips, servers humming like angry bees. Mason hunched over his laptop, fingers flying, mouth running twice as fast.

“This is suicide, Nolan. Straight-up insane. Vice president’s son? Secret Service crawling up his ass twenty-four seven? For what…some shadow donor’s election hard-on?”

I don’t look up from cleaning the suppressor in my hands. “Six hundred grand, Mason. That’s what.”

He snorts. “Yeah, and a closed-casket funeral with the flag folded real pretty. I haven’t even fucked a Vietnamese girl yet. Or an Italian guy. I have plans, man. Plans that don’t include a sniper round to the skull.”

Asher kicks his boots up on a crate. “Stop whining. We scope, we hack, we ghost. Same dance, bigger stage.”

Mason flips him off without looking. “Easy for you to say. Your brain isn’t ninety percent dick.”

“Jealousy is ugly, brother.”

I just stared at them. Mason’s version of interesting always revolved around sex, and somehow he expected the world to feel the same way. “Some pussy makes the world interesting, huh?” I said dryly.

Asher shrugged. “We just do what we have to do. Track everything. Plan it out. Execute clean. That’s it. Simple as that.”

I tune them out and keep working. I call Jace over the comms, our tech ghost, and walk him through every camera blind spot around the target’s Georgetown townhouse. Emergency lines, traffic cams two blocks out, even the goddamn Ring doorbells on the neighbors. One sec to turn the entire grid dark when we need it. He says he’s on it. I believe him.

By midnight the place empties out. Everyone drifts back to whatever holes they sleep in. Mason lingers by the armor cage, dramatic as ever.

“You assholes didn’t even throw me a welcome-back party. I was gone for three hundred and sixty-two days. I counted. And nothing. Not even a cake.”

I sling my duffel. “I didn’t miss you.”

He clutches his chest like I put a round through it. “You wound me.”

Asher grins. “He missed you. I missed you. What do you want? Club? Loud music, expensive booze, questionable decisions?”

Mason lights up. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

He turns to me. “You’re coming.”

“No.”

Mason’s smile goes sharp. “Then I’m slashing all four of your tires and you can Uber home with some mouth-breather who wants to talk about crypto.”

I stare at him. He stares back, unblinking.

“You threatening me?”

“Blackmail, extortion, take your pick. Get in the fucking car, Nolan.”

I sigh. “One hour.”

Famous last words.

The club is called VICE—biggest club market in the city, three floors of pulsing red lights and bass that lives in your bones. The manager sees us coming and the velvet rope might as well not exist. Straight to the VIP mezzanine overlooking the writhing crowd.

Mason orders a thousand dollars’ worth of tequila before his ass hits the couch. Three girls appear like he summoned them with a snap—long legs, short dresses, eyes that know exactly what tonight costs.

Asher gets one blonde in his lap within thirty seconds, whispering filth in her ear while she giggles.

Mason? Mason doesn’t waste time on conversation. Ten minutes in, his pants are open, one girl on her knees between his thighs, another sucking on his neck while the third tongues his nipple like it’s candy. His hand is fisted in the brunette’s hair, guiding her rhythm, hips rolling lazily while he downs another shot without spilling a drop.

I sit in the corner, glass after glass of bourbon, watching the chaos like it’s happening behind soundproof glass.

The burn in my throat starts tasting like nothing. The music fades to static.

I stand.

“Heading out,” I tell them.

Mason pulls the girl off him just long enough to grin, lips wet. “Take your time, man. Grab a woman. Or two. Doctor’s orders.”

I shake my head and weave through the bodies.

Outside, the night air hits like a slap. My driver straightens when he sees me.

“Out,” I say.

He scrambles onto the sidewalk without a word. I slide behind the wheel myself, door thudding shut, engine growling awake.

The bourbon is still swimming in my blood, thick and warm, but my hands are steady on the wheel. They trained us for this, even if you are drunk, high, half-dead, it doesn’t matter. You drive straight or you die in a ditch. Simple.

I pulled out my phone. Mason had sent the dossier earlier, everything on her. Teresa. I clicked through, eyes scanning, until I landed on the address.

I stare at it longer than I should, then punch the address into the maps app before I can talk myself out of it. Twenty-three minutes across the city. I’m moving before the rational part of my brain wakes up.

The neighborhood is quiet, old row houses with manicured hedges and porch lights that cost more than most people’s rent. I kill the headlights two blocks out, roll to a stop under a broken streetlamp, and become a shadow.

Black cap low. Plain black mask up. Nothing flashy, nothing that catches light. Gloves already on.

I ghost along the side of the house, boots silent on the wet grass. Most of the windows are curtained, but one in the back is cracked open just enough, thin gap between fabric and frame, like someone forgot. Golden light spills out in a slice.

I lean in.

And the air punches out of my lungs.

“What the fuck…”

Caroline.

My Caroline. Dr. Caroline Cortez, the woman who sat across from me twice a week for eighteen months in that sterile rehab office, voice soft, eyes sharper than scalpels. The one who wrote the scripts that kept me breathing when I wanted to stop. The one who said she saw something worth saving.

She’s bent over the arm of a leather couch, skirt rucked up to her waist, moaning like an animal while some thick-necked stranger rails her from behind. His hand is fisted in her perfect blonde hair, yanking her head back with every thrust. Her mouth is open, eyes rolled back, drool on her chin. She looks nothing like the woman who used to lecture me about impulse control.

I can’t move. Can’t breathe.

Then my eyes slide past them, past the sweat, the slapping skin, the obscene rhythm and land on the far corner of the room.

Teresa.

Naked.

Completely, utterly naked.

From head to toe.