Page 1 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
one
Asher
"Tell me you're not sending me in there, Blade."
"I need eyes on this location. You're the nearest asset." Cole's voice remains calm in my earpiece, characteristic of him during operations.
"At a coffee shop? This is a waste of resources." I swing my leg over my Ducati, the white bodywork and teal accents gleaming in the morning sun. My muscles protest—third surveillance op in as many days.
"Intelligence suggests our target frequents the location. We need confirmation."
I exhale sharply, scanning the street before removing my helmet. "Fine. But I'm logging this as a misuse of tactical personnel."
Cole chuckles. "Noted."
The bell above the door announces my arrival at Temple Coffee Roasters. The scent hits me first, rich espresso beans and something sweet, followed by my tactical assessment that's second nature after fifteen years of operations.
Three exits: front door, kitchen access, fire escape through the bathroom window. Sixteen civilians present. Two baristas behind the counter.
The line crawls forward. While I wait, I study the businessman checking his watch every thirty seconds. The college student whose textbooks occupy more space than necessary. The elderly couple sharing what appears to be a scone.
No threat signatures. Just ordinary people living ordinary lives.
The calculated distance between myself and everyone else feels right. Comfortable. The way it's always been.
My attention shifts to the baristas. Male, early twenties, tattoos visible beneath rolled sleeves, quickly tapping an order on a screen. Female, petite with dark hair and pink streaks in a messy bun, working multiple machines simultaneously, her fingers dancing across equipment.
The line shuffles forward until I'm next. The female barista looks up, and an unexpected brightness hits me—huge dark eyes set in a heart-shaped face that makes her look too young to be working here. But there's something in her gaze, a flicker of assessment, that doesn't match her cheerful demeanor.
"What can I get for you?" Her voice is warm, animated. Something about her seems oddly familiar, though I'm certain we've never met.
I ignore the feeling. "Black coffee. Large."
"Just black? No room for cream?" She cocks her head, studying me like I'm a puzzle with missing pieces.
"Just black."
Her lips curve into a smile that seems to reach beyond the standard customer service mask. "Coming right up."
For a fraction of a second, I wonder what she sees when she looks at me. What anyone sees. Then I dismiss the thought.It doesn't matter. I'm not here to be seen.
I'm here to watch.
The barista pivots, the pink streaks in her messy bun catching the light as she moves. Her fingers close around a matte black cup, taller than the standard sizes arranged beneath the brewing station.
Not relevant to the mission.I redirect my attention to the door as another customer enters.
"Strong and bitter, just like the personality it matches."
I blink. She's back, setting my coffee on the counter, a playful spark in her eyes. No one makes comments like that to strangers. Especially not to men who look like me.
"Excuse me?"
"The coffee." She taps the cup with a short fingernail, painted black with tiny silver stars. "Single origin Ethiopian. It's intense but complex. Not everyone appreciates it."
"I didn't ask for Ethiopian." My voice comes out cooler than intended.
She shrugs, unbothered by my tone. "Trust me. If you're drinking it black, this is better than our house blend."
