Chapter 8: Armor and Knives

The tactical surplus depot on the east side of the river was tucked behind an abandoned rail depot—a low, windowless brick warehouse marked only by a rusted sign that read *HADLEY’S SURPLUS & LOGISTICS*.

The air inside smelled of cosmoline, canvas, gun oil, and stale pipe tobacco.

Behind a high counter lined with wire-reinforced glass stood Hadley—a burly, bearded veteran in his late fifties with a prosthetic left forearm and sharp, suspicious eyes that never left the front entrance.

"We're closing early," Hadley grunted, not looking up from an oily rifle bolt he was cleaning with a bronze brush. "Supply chains are backed up at the state line. If you're looking for camping propane or thermal socks, the shelves are bare."

"We aren't looking for camping gear," Cade said, stepping out from behind my shoulder.

Hadley’s hands stopped moving.

He lifted his head, his gaze sweeping over Cade’s broad frame, locking onto the faded ball cap pulled low over the scarred eyebrow. A flicker of recognition—and immediate caution—passed across the older man’s weathered face.

"Rourke," Hadley murmured, setting the rifle bolt down on a clean rag. "Rumor on the wire was you took a contract out west. Then another rumor said you were at the bottom of the bay."

"Rumors are cheap, Hadley," Cade replied smoothly, resting his knuckles on the wooden counter. "I need Level IIIA aramid vests. Stab-resistant inner weave. Four commercial ceramic trauma plates, multi-curve. Five sets of puncture-proof gloves, and six full-tang carbon-steel utility blades. Six-inch drop points."

Hadley let out a low whistle, his eyes shifting from Cade to me. "That’s an entry-team loadout. Body armor doesn't require state paperwork yet, but civilian couriers aren't buying four sets of ballistic ceramic on a Tuesday afternoon."

"My brother is a nervous prepper," I said, stepping forward.

I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out a thick envelope containing twenty thousand dollars in fresh hundred-dollar bills—withdrawn from Julian’s corporate line an hour earlier. I dropped the stack onto the glass counter with a heavy *thud*.

Hadley stared at the money. He looked at Cade, who gave a single, imperceptible nod.

"Give me ten minutes," Hadley muttered, scooping the cash into a steel floor drawer. "Wait in the side bay."

When we loaded the two heavy canvas duffels into the trunk of our sedan, the sun was sinking behind the skyline, casting long, bloody-red shadows across the industrial district.

We converted the apartment's second bedroom into a training deck.

Cade had stripped out the carpet, exposing the solid oak floorboards. He unzipped the duffel, pulled out the smallest ballistic vest, and tossed it into my chest.

"Put it on," he commanded.

I caught the vest, sliding my arms through the shoulder loops. The composite plates were surprisingly dense, settling against my ribs with rigid, unyielding weight. I yanked the side Velcro straps tight, rolling my shoulders to test the range of motion.

Cade stepped around me, his hands firm and impersonal as he adjusted the rear cinches, his knuckles brushing against my shoulder blades through my thin cotton shirt. Every time his skin made contact, a warm shudder rippled down my spine.

"Tighter," he muttered, pulling the strap until the armor clamped snug against my torso. "If an impact plate moves three inches during a fall, the blunt-force trauma fractures your collarbone. Breathe in."

I inhaled sharply. His chest was right behind my back, his warm breath stirring the stray hairs at the nape of my neck.

"Now breathe out."

He locked the Velcro with a loud tear.

He stepped back, turning to face me. He had stripped down to a black compression shirt that showed the thick, corded muscle of his shoulders and the white gauze taped securely over his stitched flank. He picked up two blunted wooden training blades from the table, tossing one toward my right hand.

I caught it by the textured grip.

"Come at me," Cade said, planting his boots shoulder-width apart, his hands loose at his belt.

"You tore eleven stitches yesterday, soldier," I pointed out, shifting my weight into a low crouch.

"And a raider in an alley won't ask for your medical chart before he takes your teeth," he shot back, his grey eyes flashing with challenge. "Come at me, Calder. Put me down."

I lunged.

I stepped in fast, driving the wooden blade toward his liver, aiming to use my lower center of gravity to slip beneath his reach.

Cade didn't even flinch.

He pivoted half an inch on his heel, his left forearm sweeping down to deflect my wrist, his right hand shooting out like a piston to catch my throat. Before I could reset my stance, he hooked his leg behind my ankle, took my balance, and slammed me flat onto my back against the floorboards.

The wind left my lungs in a violent wheeze.

Cade dropped down over me, his knees straddling my hips, the blunt wooden tip of his blade pressed firmly against the hollow beneath my jaw.

His weight was heavy, suffocating, and entirely dominant. He was breathing hard, a bead of sweat tracing the curve of his scarred jaw, dropping onto my collarbone. His eyes locked onto mine, burning with a ferocious, predatory focus.

"Dead," he whispered, his chest heaving against mine.

My pulse was roaring in my ears. I lay beneath him, my thighs pinned under his, feeling every hard, uncompromising line of his body pressing into mine. The pain in my back was nothing compared to the violent rush of heat coiling low in my stomach.

"Again," I gasped out.

A slow, wicked grin spread across Cade’s mouth.

"That's my girl," he murmured, his voice husky as he eased his weight off my hips and extended a hand to haul me up. "Reset."

We were at  it for two hours.

Block. Slip. Slash. Reset.

By the ninth round, I had learned to read the tell in his shoulder. When he stepped in for a high disarm, I feinted right, dropped to my knees beneath his reach, and drove a vicious elbow into his uninjured side, hooking my heel behind his knee.

Cade grunted, losing his footing, and went down on one knee.

In a heartbeat, I vaulted onto his back, wrapping my left arm around his throat in a sleeper hold, pressing the blunted wooden blade hard against the side of his neck.

We froze.

Cade was breathing heavily, his head tilted back against my shoulder, his broad chest rising and falling beneath my forearm. He didn't fight the lock. Instead, his hand reached up, his calloused fingers wrapping around the back of my neck, his thumb tracing the jawline right below my ear.

"Not bad," he murmured, his voice vibrating straight through my ribs. "A little sloppy on the dismount. But you'd buy yourself five seconds to run."

"I don't run anymore," I whispered against his ear.

His fingers tightened slightly in my hair, pulling my face an inch closer to his. For a second, neither of us moved. The room was silent except for our ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city outside.

His eyes were dark, dilated, searching my face with a hunger that made my knees weak.

Then, from the living room floor, my phone vibrated loudly against the coffee table.

The sharp ring shattered the heat in the room like ice water.

Cade’s jaw tightened. He let his hand drop from my neck, stepping back as I released the hold, putting distance between us.

I walked into the living room on shaky legs, picking up the glowing screen.

*Julian:*

> *Formal gala is confirmed for Saturday night at Reeve Tower. Picked out your gown myself. My father insists on meeting his future daughter-in-law for a private toast before the reception. Be ready by seven. ❤️*

> 

I stared at the screen, my fingers curling around the cold glass until my knuckles turned white.

Behind me, Cade’s shadow fell across the floor. He read the text over my shoulder, his face hardening back into a mask of stone.

"Augustin wants you in that tower," Cade said, his voice stripped of all warmth.

"He wants my blood," I said quietly, looking down at the diamond ring on my hand.

Cade reached out, his thumb and forefinger closing around the platinum band, twisting it roughly on my knuckle until the stone cut into my skin.

"Then wear the Kevlar under the silk," Cade growled, his eyes blazing into mine. "Because if that old bastard tries to take a needle to you, I'm burning that penthouse to the ground."