Page 152 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
That I chose duty over her. That I agreed with the assessment. That loving me was her mistake.
"Shit."
"Yeah." Jax stands, wiping hands on a rag that spreads more grease than it removes. "So you can go eliminate Williams and prove to Kade that you're still his perfect little sniper. But what happens if something goes sideways on the job? What if you hesitate at the wrong moment because part of your brain is calculating how badly you fucked up with the one person who actually matters?"
His analysis cuts through every defense I have left. Mission success depends on complete mental clarity. Divided attention creates variables that get people killed.
"You're saying I should see her first."
"I'm saying you're about to prove you're operational to Kade, but you left the most important person thinking you don't give a shit about her. Fix that first, genius." Jax leans against his car, engine heat shimmering around him like desert mirage. "Or prove Kade right when your head's not in the game because you're thinking about her instead of your target."
Every calculation I've made crumbles. Every tactical assessment I've run assumes mission first, personal considerations second. But those equations didn't account for the reality that unsecured variables create cascade failures.
"Besides," Jax grins, but something sharper lurks behind the expression. "What's the tactical advantage of completing a perfect elimination if the woman you love thinks you chose protocol over her? Pyrrhic victory, if you ask me."
The argument builds in my throat, then dies. Because he's right. About all of it.
I head toward my gear locker, mission parameters shifting in real time.
My specialized sniper pack sits exactly where regulation demands—cleaned, organized, ready for deployment. The modular rifle system breaks down into components that fit precisely within the reinforced framework. Scope, bipod, ammunition. Tools for eliminating problems with surgical precision.
The weight settles across my shoulders like familiar armor. But instead of heading toward Williams' location, I walk toward the motorcycle bay.
My Ducati Panigale V4R sits beneath fluorescent lighting like a sculpture of controlled violence. Ice white with teal accents that match the surgical precision of everything I do. The engine turns over with mechanical perfection, 1,103 cubic centimeters of Italian engineering designed for speed and agility.
The specialized pack straps securely to the bike's frame. Ready for elimination work that will prove my operational capacity remains intact.
But first, I have equations to correct.
Helmet secure, gloves checked, route calculated through Sacramento's morning traffic. Vanessa's loft sits forty-seven minutes away at current speed projections.
Time to prove that loving her doesn't compromise my effectiveness.
It perfects it.
The garage door opens to reveal gray October morning, San Francisco fog rolling through early light like smoke from distant fires. The Ducati's engine note echoes off the concrete walls as I throttle toward R Street and the woman who makes every calculation matter.
Williams can wait. This can't.
forty
Asher
The Ducati's engine cuts through Sacramento's late afternoon traffic like a blade through flesh. Every red light feels like tactical delay, every slow-moving vehicle an obstacle between me and the woman who makes every calculation matter.
My specialized pack weighs heavy against my shoulders, sniper components secured within reinforced framework. Tools for elimination work that can wait. Tools that mean nothing if I can't fix what I destroyed with my silence.
The familiar streets of R Street blur past in patterns of brick and glass. Industrial lofts converted into living spaces, each building a monument to urban renewal and careful renovation. But only one matters now.
Her building rises five stories above the sidewalk, windows reflecting gray October sky like closed eyes. I park the Ducati against the curb with precision that's become second nature, engine ticking as it cools.
My boots hit pavement with purpose that's been missing for hours. Every step toward her door carries weight—years oftraining, months of partnership, seventy-two hours of the worst miscalculation of my operational career.
The building entrance stands unlocked, just like before. I take the stairs three at a time, tactical boots echoing off concrete like artillery fire. Four flights pass in seconds that feel like hours. Her door sits at the end of the hallway, 4C stenciled in simple black numbers.
I knock hard against the metal door. Sharp, urgent raps that echo through the hallway like gunfire. The kind of knocking that demands immediate attention.
The door opens to reveal chaos.
