Page 23 of Defending What's Mine

“Exactly,” I confirm, stopping where the stone path angles toward the service lane. From here I can monitor both hotel wings—habit. “Nancy’s reading micro-expressions, Wade’s reading opportunities. We flinch once, they’ll pounce.”

“You think they smell a ruse?”

“Can’t confirm,” I admit, scanning the upper balconies for silhouettes. “But assumption of compromise keeps us alive. If Wade’s closet has skeletons, I need their dental records.”

Dean’s keyboard chatter ramps up. “What flavor of dirt you want first—financial crimes, hidden addictions, ex-girlfriends with restraining orders?”

“All of the above. Bankruptcies, sealed settlements, offshore ‘philanthropy.’ Anything that tips the board in our favor.”

“Roger. I’ll crack the shell corps, see who’s laundering what. But you’ll need buffering time.”

“I’ll maintain the act.” I roll my shoulders, easing tension, then rake fingers through hair still damp from the dawn air. “Proximity to Charlotte, keep baseline calm. If Nana Peg or Wade escalates, I meet force with narrative.”

Dean goes quiet long enough that the lake birds fill the channel. Then: “Your improvisation score’s high, Hawke. Trust that. But elevate perimeter posture. Desperate men pivot ugly.”

My jaw sets. “Understood.”

He exhales, tone shifting from analyst to something more personal. “Anything else on your mind?”

I hesitate—fraction of a beat that’s too long. “What’s your play if you were running point?”

“Easy,” he deadpans. “Run like hell.”

A reluctant laugh punches out of me, tension-diffuser. “Copy that, war poet.”

Serious again, he says, “Stay sharp—don’t let feelings clutter the sight picture.”

The word detonates. “Feelings?”

“Don’t play coy. You don’t call me pre-sunrise unless you’re orbiting.”

“She’s a client,” I state, but the words lack ballast.

“Client and catalyst,” Dean counters. “Keep your head above the chemical haze. Mission first.”

“My head’s exactly where it needs to be.” Steadier this time.

“Good.” He closes with standard caution: “Send location pings every two hours. I’ll feed intel as it surfaces. Watch your six, Hawke.”

“Roger. Out.” I end the call, slide the phone into my jacket, and draw one long, controlled inhale. Lavender from the hedge mixes with fresh-cut grass—calming if I let it.

Mission first. Protect Charlotte, neutralize Wade, dismantle Nancy’s theater.

Footsteps whisper on flagstones ahead. Charlotte appears on the terrace apron, barefoot, mug of coffee cupped in both hands, sunrise washing copper through her hair. She tilts her head to watch a pair of swallows dive above the lake—unaware of thecrosshairs Wade’s aiming at her future. The sight knocks the breath strategy from my lungs for a half-second.

Refocus. Scan: no shadows behind her, no reflective glare of optics in upper windows. Clear. I start toward her, boots silent on damp grass, mind already drafting contingency lines while something softer—something dangerous—spreads beneath the tactical grid.

Yeah. This assignment just moved from complex to personal. And personal is always the harder battlefield.

Breakfast debrief complete,I hover near the resort’s coffee bar—espresso, vantage on both exits—while Charlotte nurses a cappuccino. Her posture finally loosening when a staffer in resort pastels bounces up, clipboard at the ready.

“Good morning!” she chirps. “We have a small group heading out for a horseback ride in twenty minutes. Interested?”

I don’t like it. I can’t protect Charlotte out in the open—I’m formulating a polite decline—when Melanie materializes like fireworks. “You have to go, Char! Picture it—sunlit hills, your handsome fiancé, saddle-selfies. Pure romance.”

Charlotte’s smile could ignite a sunrise in the darkest safe-house. She wants this. Decision window shrinking. I take control.

“Sounds great,” I say, tone light but final. I offer Charlotte a grin that’s promising. “What do you say, sweetheart?”

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