Page 51 of Zero Hour

When he got back, Jasmine was looking at the photograph of Val and himself on the mantlepiece. They were much younger then, stupid grins on their faces, standing in front of a windswept lighthouse.

“Maine?” she mused. “I didn’t picture you as the New England type.”

Pat set the mug of tea down in front of her. “Surprised?”

“A little. I imagined something more . . . rugged.”

“Maine’s got its moments.” He lowered his voice. “That was our honeymoon, actually. We rented a cottage by the water. It was peaceful. Just the two of us.”

She glanced at his left hand. “You’re married?”

“Widowed.”

Her expression softened. “I’m sorry.”

There was an awkward pause.

“She died a long time ago. Cancer.”

Jasmine nodded. “I lost my mother to cancer too. It’s a terrible disease.”

Pat perched opposite her on the armchair and took a swig of his beer. “How’s the head now?”

She managed a weak smile. “It’s not nearly as bad now. I’m just grateful to be out of there.” She shivered and wrapped her hands around the mug. “Before I met you, I didn’t think there was a way out.”

“Glad to be of service.” He didn’t want to think what would have happened if hadn’t got to her in time.

“Sorry that I didn’t get a chance to let you into the house. I know you were hoping to find out what the target was.”

He sucked in a sharp breath, forcing himself to push down the frustration clawing at his gut. “I won’t lie, that’s a setback. But your safety was the priority.”

Was it, though? Really?

The ruthless part of his brain, the part honed through years of high-risk missions, screamed that one life never outweighed the mission. He’d been trained to think that way, drilled to make the hard calls without hesitation. If it had been one of his operators compromised, he’d have expected them to hold their ground, gather intel, and find a way to finish the job.

But this wasn’t one of his men.

This was Jasmine.

And instead of keeping his focus locked on the bigger picture, he’d made a judgment call that put his entire team on the back foot. Blade and the others hadn’t questioned it—like the professionals they were, they’d adjusted, pivoted, and executed the extraction. Adapt and overcome—that was the game.

But the truth gnawed at him. He knew the mission came first. He knew that every second wasted put innocent lives in danger. He should be strategizing next moves, running through contingencies, figuring out what the hell they’d missed by pulling out early.

Instead, all he could think about was a green-eyed woman who had no business getting under his damn skin.

Goddammit. He needed his head read.

When he had more time, he’d sit down and pick apart every mistake he’d made. Tear himself a new one for how badly he’d fucked this up. The team had spent weeks—months—piecing this op together. Surveillance, intel-gathering, strategy. It had been airtight. And then he’d gone and shattered it in a single reckless moment.

All because he couldn’t keep his emotions in check.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Al-Jabiri was still out there. The attack was still in motion. And now, thanks to his split-second decision, they were back to square one.

And for what?

A woman he barely knew.

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