Semua Bab Undercover Hearts: Bab 111 - Bab 118

JamieNoah doesn’t look up right away when I burst in, which is probably for the best. I’m dripping irritation like rain off a stormcoat and the last thing I need is an audience for my dramatic entrance. He’s leaning over the counter with a piping bag in hand, lines of custard going into neat rows of pastry shells like a man who believes in order, rhythm, quiet competence. The opposite of me, basically.“Rough day?” he asks without looking away from his work. His tone is neutral, but there’s a thread of humor hiding in it, like he already knows I’m about to implode all over his spotless kitchen.“You could say that.” I flop onto one of the stools like I’ve been mortally wounded. My coat slides half off my shoulder, and I don’t bother fixing it. Drama is half the point.Finally, he sets the piping bag down and wipes his hands on a towel. His eyes meet mine, calm and steady in a way that only makes the storm in my chest feel louder. “Want to talk about it?”I laugh, sharp and brittle.

MarcusThe thing about slipping back into old habits is how easy it feels, like shrugging on a jacket you swore you’d outgrown but still fits just fine.Sophia and I lost Marrin on our last outing. He ducked around a corner and disappeared from sight. But I have a tiny divot in the wall now and if I keep working at it, it may turn into a genuine foothold.I shouldn’t be doing this. Not officially. Rodriguez made it clear I’m benched, and Gillespie would love nothing more than to report back that Marcus Blackwood has finally let emotion scramble his operational sense. But old contacts don’t vanish, and instincts don’t switch off because the Bureau says so.So when I hear about a courier running envelopes for Marrin, I lean on a favor. Just enough pressure to get a name. The trick is to act like you’re still an invaluable part of the machine even when you’re not. Authority is half illusion, half memory. People hear my voice and still assume I have a right to demand answers. That works u

MarcusThe safehouse is barely more than a forgotten apartment over a boarded-up hardware store. No heat, no furniture except a sagging couch and a table with one broken leg propped on a brick. But it’s quiet and secluded. No prying eyes, no neighbors awake at this hour.Marrin paces like a caged animal, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill that seeps through the cracked windows. Sophia sits forward on the dilapidated couch, notebook open, pen in hand, every inch the journalist even when the air smells like mildew and dust.I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching him wear a trench into the scuffed floorboards. He looks smaller than he did at the laundromat. Hunched, hollowed, stripped of whatever shine Bainbridge once put on him.“You said you wanted to talk,” Sophia says, calm but sharp. “So talk.”Marrin stops pacing, rubbing his face with shaking hands. “You don’t get it. Talking is what gets you killed.”Sophia doesn’t flinch. “Not talking already has you half-d

GillespieI spread the files across the table of the conference room in neat, controlled lines. Bank statements, transcripts, surveillance shots, and wait for Marcus to take a seat.He doesn’t. He stands by the door, arms folded, jaw tight, radiating stubbornness like body heat.“You’re late,” I say.“You’re lucky I’m here at all,” he fires back.There it is. The old Marcus Blackwood I remember from training ops. Brilliant, relentless, impossible. I’ve never seen him this frayed, though. Not in the field, not undercover, not even that time in Miami when the entire operation was one step away from collapse. This is different.This is Sophia Chen different.I tap the file nearest to him. “Marrin’s confession is strong. Strong enough to move on. But if we bring him in wrong, we lose everything. We need it to be airtight.”He pushes off the door and comes closer. “Airtight means dead if you’re not careful. He’s already twitching at shadows.”“That’s not my problem.”“It’s mine,” he says,