Page 42 of No Words
The cabin has transformed overnight. Furniture rearranged, windows partially covered, equipment I don’t recognize set up on the kitchen counter. Cole stands at the center of it all, pointing at coordinates on a map spread across the table. The three men from last night surround him, faces granite-hard as they absorb his instructions.
He senses me before I speak, his head turning, eyes finding mine like a laser locking onto its target. “Good morning.” His voice carries an intimacy that makes the other men glance away.
“Morning.” I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of my bare legs.
“Molly, these are friends of Killian and mine. Jayce, Jensen, and Owen,” Cole gestures to each of the men. “They brought us some help.”
I nod, not sure what to say to men who look like they stepped out of a special forces recruitment drive. “When do they arrive? Borsellini’s men?”
“Soon.” Cole crosses to me, his hand finding the curve of my back as he guides me toward the bedroom. “Let’s get you ready.”
Inside, he pulls clothes from a duffel I don’t recognize, tactical pants, fitted shirt, a lightweight jacket. Not my style, but definitely not standard FBI issue either.
“These should fit,” he says, helping me dress with a focus that’s somehow both practical and intimate. “Kevlar-reinforced fabric. Slash-proof.” His fingers trace the seam along my ribs with pride. When he kneels to strap a holster to my thigh, his fingers brush my skin with deliberate slowness.
“You’ve done this before,” I observe.
His eyes flick up to mine. “Dressed a woman for combat? No.” His hand lingers. “You’re the first.”
His words send warmth flooding through me. Another first. We seem to be collecting them. The air shifts, not a breeze, not temperature, just something in the way the walls feel closer than they did a minute ago. Cole’s quiet, but it’s the kind that hums under your skin.“Scared?” he asks, standing.
“Yes.” No point in lying. “But not like I should be.”
His lips quirk into a half-smile that makes my stomach flip. “Good.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Fear keeps you sharp. Too much makes you stupid.”
The alarm chirps, one, two, three, then settles into an unbroken tone. It’s the sound of the last calm we’re going to get. Cole’s hand brushes my lower back once, a silent anchor, before he’s moving toward the window.
When we return to the main room, Jayce murmurs coordinates into his radio. Jensen strips and reassembles his rifle. Owen’s eyes track movement across multiple monitors.
“Movement on the approach,” Owen announces. “Three vehicles.”
Cole guides me to the screens. Black SUVs wind slowly up the forest road, stopping half a mile from the cabin. I count eight men exiting, spreading into formation. My breath catches when I recognize the man giving orders.
“Alessio,” I whisper.
Cole’s hand tightens on my shoulder. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.” The man who executed my witness in the parking garage, whose face has haunted my dreams, is now hunting me through these woods.
The next hour passes in a blur of preparation. Equipment clicks into place. Radios crackle with position reports. Cole’s hands guide mine through weapon checks until muscle memory takes over. Cole’s hand stays at my back while he points out sight lines, escape routes, weapon positions.
‘If I go down, you run here,’ he says, tapping a concealed panel in the floor. The escape tunnel was installed by the previous owner, a paranoid tech millionaire, according to Cole.
“I’m not hiding while you fight my battle.”
His eyes darken, concern warring in his expression. “This isn’t your prosecutor’s office, Molly.”
“And I’m not just a prosecutor anymore.” I hold his gaze. “You made sure of that.”
His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheek. “No,” he agrees softly. “You’re not.”
The perimeter alarm sounds, a soft, insistent beeping that freezes everyone mid-motion. On the monitors, figures move through the trees, approaching from multiple directions.
“They’re here,” Jayce announces.
Cole tugs me into the kitchen, away from the windows. “Last chance to use that tunnel.”
Instead of answering, I grab his shirt and pull his mouth to mine. The kiss tastes of coffee and gunmetal, desperate and hungry, like we’re stealing something before the world burns down around us. His body responds instantly, pressing me against the counter, hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.
