Page 77 of Echo: Line
His laugh is harsh. "You make it sound simple."
"I make it sound honest." I lean into his touch. "When this is over?—"
"Don't." His thumb presses against my lips gently. "Don't make plans for after. Let's finish it first. Then we figure out what comes next."
"Deal."
He kisses me then, and there's nothing gentle about it. His mouth crashes against mine with barely controlled desperation, teeth catching my lower lip before his tongue sweeps in to claim territory. One hand tangles in my hair, fisting tight enough to sting, angling my head exactly where he wants it. The other hand slides to my jaw, thumb pressed against my pulse point like he's counting my heartbeat.
The cold Montana air disappears. All that exists is his heat, the rough scrape of stubble against my skin, the taste of coffee and something darker underneath. My fingers dig into his shoulders, nails biting through tactical fabric as I pull him closer. Not close enough. Never close enough.
His chest is solid against mine, heartbeat hammering as hard as my own. When he breaks the kiss to drag his mouth down my throat, I gasp for air that burns going down. His teeth graze the junction of my neck and shoulder—not quite gentle, definitely a mark—and something low in my stomach tightens.
"Alex." His name comes out breathless.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, both of us breathing like we've been running. His hand is still fisted in my hair. Mine are still clutching his shoulders like he's the only thing keeping me upright.
Because he is.
"Forty-eight hours," he says. "We end this."
"Or die trying," I add.
"Preferably the first option," Kane's voice interjects from the maintenance hatch. "I hate paperwork."
We both turn to find him standing there, expression neutral but something that might be amusement flickering across his face.
"Team's assembled," Kane continues. "Final briefing starts in five minutes. Try to look professional." He disappears back through the hatch.
Alex's hand is still on my face. My fingers dig into his shoulders.
"Forty-eight hours," I repeat.
"Then we finish this." His hand tightens. "You stay close to me during the operation. You don't take unnecessary risks. You follow orders."
"Yes, sir." The words come out more sarcastic than intended.
"I'm serious, Delaney."
"So am I." I pull back enough to look at him properly. "I'm not a liability you need to protect. I'm an asset you need to trust."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then something shifts in his expression. "Yeah. You are."
We head back down through the maintenance hatch, back to the operations center where the team waits. The wanted poster still glows on the screen. My face. My fabricated crimes.
Alex's hand finds mine as we walk toward the briefing.
Forty-eight hours until we hit Committee leadership. Forty-eight hours until I either clear my name or die trying.
The Bureau trained me to build cases against killers. It's time to use that training against the Committee.
17
ALEX
Twenty-four hours since Kane made it official. Twenty-four hours of prep, planning, and pushing down the knowledge that tomorrow we're walking into a fortress designed to kill intruders.
My hands move through weapons maintenance with muscle memory built over fifteen years of operations. Strip the HK416. Clean each component. Reassemble. Check function. Load magazines. The ritual calms some part of my brain that knows what's coming.
