Page 97 of Red Line

Besides watching passing faces for someone on their watch list, he had time to think.

And what he thought about was Red.

Nomad knew that their love-making wouldn’t stay between the two of them. Red had called this in. It was CIA protocol. His taking her into his arms last night was now part of a CIA report.

That felt all kinds of wrong to him. It hadn’t just been sex. It had been … sacred was the word that came to mind.

Nomad thought that over his years of experience, he’d become pretty good at reading women in bed. He needed to keep up the reputation of special forces as being especially good. And in that, he made sure to put in the effort. And while sex sometimes became formulaic, it was still fun, if not somewhat ego-driven.

Those elements were missing from last night with Red in his arms: effort, ego, and formula.

He’d been thoughtless throughout.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about Red’s experience. It was just that it seemed so natural.

There was an ease there that he’d never had before.

After they’d orgasmed and Red had draped her sweaty body over him, he could feel her heart galloping. She’d lifted herself momentarily, then flopped back across him. It wasn’t graceful; she was a rag doll, and he had been proud.

No, wrong word. Fulfilled.

Her satietyfulfilledsomething in him. When this mission wrapped up, and he finally had to say goodbye to her, that would be a hard day.

Something in his chest growled,Mine!

But she wasn’t.

And wouldn’t be.

Their lives didn’t line up like that. She’d move back into her shadow life, and he’d head out on his next mission.

That thought was a hard kick in the gut.

Red’s voice in his ear bud refocused him. He had his ticket in his pocket and could maneuver as needed.

“She’s out of the hammam. As anticipated, Elena’s changed into traditional clothes. She’s in black, head to foot. Simone is walking a few steps behind in grey robes and a rose head scarf.”

“Copy.”

“Something—” The sounds of the Medina filled Nomad’s earbud. He knew to wait. He didn’t want to step on her information or concentration. “Something’s wrong.”

She was steps away, in the shop across the pathway. Nomad rounded to a place where he could see the entrance to the hammam and—with a brief window where the tourists shifted—Nomad caught a glance of Red’s back, heading into the Medina’s labyrinth rather than toward the garden.

“Okay. This is bad.” And he could hear the squeeze of her ribs that prevented breath. This was a combat call. This was how soldiers sounded when a tango was in play.

Ice dumped through his system.

“She’s running,” Red called out. “Okay. Okay. I didn’t plan for this.” She was heavy breathing into the phone. “I recognize this man. Elena is turning. Okay. Moving.”

“What guy, Cassie?”

Red switched to Turkish. “There was a robbery in Germany. Do you know that?”

“Negative.” That word in Turkish was enough to let Red know he was conversant in that language. He knew she’d switched so those around her would have less of a shot of understanding.

“Five men killed?”

“Negative.”

---