Page 5 of Command and Control: GHOST Operative

And the best—maybe the only—way to do that, is to go back to the beginning. To the original source of all this fucking doubt stacking up around me.

I tamp down the curl of anticipation weaving into mygut, stomping it away. I’m not excited about this. It’s simply a means to an end. The path I have to take to reclaim the life I’m too close to losing.

Snagging my cell, I dial as I stand, crossing the room while the line rings, waiting for my second in command to answer. Amos picks up on the second ring. "What can I do?"

His no-nonsense attitude is why we get along as well as we do. There's no casual conversation between us. No mincing words. Just getting shit done.

"I'm flying to Nashville tonight. Call Igor. Have him get everything set up. I want to be off the ground in under an hour." The timing is tight, but I don't care. I pay them to make shit happen. To take orders without question.

And lately, there have been too many goddamned questions. Ones I shouldn't have to answer. I'm not their mothers. I don't have to explainwhy. Thewhyis fucking irrelevant to them.

Thankfully, the why never matters to Amos. He's one of the few people at GHOST who isn't questioning my leadership.

But soon, he won’t be in the minority. Soon they’ll all see I'm the same Vincent they love to hate. That I always come out on top. Even if they don't understand the path I take, I know how to fucking win.

"Yes, sir." Amos disconnects the call the same time I do. Neither of us has time to waste.

While Igor's organizing my travel, I have my own shit to get together. An hour isn't much time to coordinate a flight, even when you own a private plane, but it's not much time for all I need to do either.

Good thing I fucking know what I'm doing, whether the assholes around me believe it or not.

FUCKING HELL.I expected it to be warmer than this.

I packed correctly, based on information from my weather app, but part of me still expected ten degrees in Nashville to feel warmer than ten degrees in Fairbanks. Like the opposite of humid heat and dry heat. Apparently cold is just fucking cold. Especially with the wind blowing nonstop, whipping around the light snow falling on the city.

I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’m sixty feet in the air, but it’s a necessary evil. Just like my presence here on the edge of downtown Nashville.

It’s not a bad place. If this was a casual trip, I'd probably be impressed. But this trip isn’t about sightseeing or exploration. I'm here to make an example of the woman who thought it was a smart idea to fuck with me.

It's been half a year since Julieanne Marello hacked her way into GHOST’s system in an event some would pinpoint as the beginning of my downward spiral. I should have come here right away. Should have hunted her down then. But I didn't, and that was a mistake. A mistake I'm rectifying now.

Pulling the collar of my coat higher against the wind whipping between the buildings, I lift my binoculars back into place. She showed up at the restaurant across the street over fifteen minutes ago, arriving right on time for the date with some pudgy looking stranger she met through an app with only the most basic security measuresin place. It took me under five minutes to see every man who’d swiped whatever direction and read all their pitiful messages, disgusted with the level of incompetence.

How many fucking dicks do they think a woman needs to see?

At least the man she’s meeting tonight has kept it in his pants so far. Apparently that’s all he has going for him at this point since he’s left her waiting near the hostess station of what looks to be an upper-end restaurant, checking the time every two minutes and the app on her phone every three.

I pull up the mirror account I installed on my own phone and scowl. The prick hasn’t sent a single message telling her he’ll be late. Like a fucking amateur.

Or a pompous asshole. Probably both.

Julieanne seems to agree with me because her expression grows more irritated with each passing second. She should be irritated. He’s a fucking loser. She should leave now, even though it’ll fuck up my plans. I’d rather wait another day to make my move than have some prick get more than he deserves from her.

Hell, just getting to look at her is more than he deserves. Especially decked out the way she is now.

I've seen my little thorn before. Watched as her face filled my computer screen. But this is different. Now it's not Julieanne coming after me, and that has me looking at her a little differently. She's unassuming as hell. Mid-forties. Thick, curly, dark hair. A smile that lights up the room. Soft curves that probably drive most men to distraction.

Good thing I'm not most men.

Julieanne might be beautiful. She might be the walkingembodiment of every sexual fantasy a man could ever have. But all I see is a target. The path back to where I want to be.

Movement at the door of the restaurant pulls my attention away, zeroing it in on the man striding her way. He motions with his hands, expression somewhat apologetic. Probably trying to explain why he left her standing there, waiting on his dumb ass for fifteen minutes. Fucking idiot. He has no clue. This woman could ruin his whole life in the span of five minutes, and he couldn't even bother being on time for their date.

Then, as if being late wasn’t insulting enough, the prick moves in close, like he's going to hug her. I grit my teeth as Julieanne stiffens, spine going rigid, body bending back. But he just keeps coming. Either he doesn't realize or doesn't care that she's not in the hugging mood.

I can't blame her. He looks like the kind of guy who thinks she should be grateful he's there at all. That his presence is a gift she should graciously accept. He didn't bother with flowers or a timely arrival and still looks shocked when she steps out of his reach, smiling wide as she dodges his attempt at an embrace.

Even once they reach their table, he doesn’t offer to help with her coat or pull out her chair. He just plops his pasty ass down beside the floor-to-ceiling window flanking the front of the building.

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