Page 20 of Code Name: Grit

“Actually, we don’t. I’ll make it easy on you. I’ll quit.”

His eyes widened, and he took a step back. “You can’t be serious.”

I skirted around him and returned to the other room. No matter how foolish I felt, I couldn’t let my pride keep me from the coffee I’d left on the counter. With the little sleep I’d gotten, caffeine was a necessity.

“Chiara?”

I took a large gulp before facing him. “Look, I didn’t get much sleep, either, so let’s just pretend this conversation didn’t happen.”

He nodded once but didn’t say anything for several minutes, and then it was only to ask if I was ready to leave.

We arrivedat the shipping terminal forty minutes later. Tank and Atticus were already positioned at strategic points around the perimeter, with Ranger and Diesel from K19 Shadow Operations providing additional support. Dragon, who’d arrived separately but around the same time we had, melted into a crowd of people waiting on the public side of the docks where the tour boats left on an hourly basis.

Grit placed his hand at the small of my back, guiding me toward the commercial terminal entrance. The pressure of his palm was both reassuring and distracting, anchoring me as we transitioned into our undercover roles.

“Ready, Mrs. Sinclair?” The teasing lilt in his voice eased some of the tension between us.

“Always, Mr. Sinclair.”

We passed a man unloading cargo from a truck. He glanced up, his eyes lingering on my face longer than felt comfortable.

“Keep walking,” Grit murmured.

“I look familiar to him,” I whispered once we were past.

“I got that impression too. On the other hand, maybe he was mesmerized by your beauty.”

I half smiled at what might be a compliment, but could also be a way of assuaging my concern. “I look like my mom. We should have considered this.”

“Too late to change your appearance now, but it’s a lesson for next time.” He steered me through the security checkpoint, where our credentials passed inspection without issue.

Terminal Manager Howard O’Roarke ushered us into his office, a glass-walled space overlooking the main shipping area. His handshake was firm, but his eyes betrayed his nervousness.

“Atlantic Shield comes highly recommended,” he said, gesturing for us to sit. “Though, I must admit, I’m surprised by the rapid response to our inquiry.”

“Security threats don’t wait for convenient timing, Mr. O’Roarke.” Grit handed over the proposal Atticus had prepared. “We specialize in quick deployment.”

While they discussed the technical details, I scanned the office, noting the security monitors displaying various sections of the terminal. One showed the high-security container area Cassio had focused on yesterday.

On another monitor, I noticed footage of what appeared to be a meeting between terminal security personnel and men I recognized as Belcastro associates—not high-ranking members, but definitely connected.

“Ms. Sinclair has particular expertise in identifying vulnerability points in maritime access points,” Grit was saying, drawing me back to the conversation.

O’Roarke turned to me, his expression skeptical. “Is that so?”

I smiled, slipping fully into character. “I’ve consulted on similar vulnerabilities at facilities in Boston and Baltimore. And I specialize in identifying how security breaches in shipping operations connect to broader criminal networks.”

As I walked him through the potential weak points, his skepticism faded. By the time we finished our initial assessment, we had full-access credentials to the terminal and permission to conduct a comprehensive security review.

“That was impressive,” Grit murmured as we left O’Roarke’s office.

“Which part?”

“The way you established authority without overselling.”

His praise warmed me more than it should have.

We split up to cover more ground, though Grit was visibly reluctant to let me out of his sight until I reminded him that Ava Sinclair was a professional who wouldn’t appreciate being babied by her husband.

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