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  Anika bit down on the inside of her cheek. She hadn’t expected the rip to come from Command herself.

  Nodding, she turned on her heel and headed down the corridor. After a few steps, she risked a backward glance. Jewel had tucked her arm into Gianni’s and was laughing up at him. Anika’s stomach turned a slow sickening somersault.

  She continued toward Hub, the complex’s center around which all of the other departments radiated like the spokes in a giant wheel, until she reached the elevator to Command’s office.

  Small round holes the size of her fingernail patterned the inside walls of the circular tube. They would hiss out lethal gas at the first sign of danger. On the way up, sensors verified her identity, operative status, and security clearance. Because she was still conscious when she reached the top, she knew she hadn’t been tagged as a security breach. Not yet anyway.

  The doors opened. Floor-to-ceiling safety windows offered a 180-degree view of the agency’s honeycomb of rooms.

  “Come.”

  Command had her back to Anika. The head of U.N.I.T. 605 faced the wall of monitors that dominated the north side of the room. Flashes, pulses, and colors raced across the three dozen screens and provided a visual status of agency missions around the world. To Anika, the wall looked like a vast display of random flickerings.

  She took two steps forward and stopped. Her booted feet sank into the gel-padded carpet. The effect unnerved her almost as much as the sight of Command’s desk, a legless rectangular surface that hung suspended in space at waist height.

  “Sit.”

  Anika directed her feet to move, one after the other, until she sat in a creamy white leather chair directly in front of the desk. The seat and back of the chair pulsed with warm currents that tried to lull her muscles into relaxation. She kept both feet flat on the floor, ready to jump up at a moment’s notice.

  Command finally turned away from the window. Her calf-length tunic and matching pants in midnight blue accentuated her six-foot frame, made even more imposing when she stepped up to the platform where the desk hovered.

  Anika gripped the chair arms to keep herself from shifting around.

  Command lowered herself into the high-backed chair behind the desk. Dark unblinking eyes bore into Anika. “Well?” Her husky tone, like sandpaper on satin, contrasted with her delicate features, smooth oval head and swan-like neck. Rumor had it that Command had surgically altered her voice to achieve the deep register.

  “I couldn’t do it,” Anika said. “I couldn’t carry out the order.”

  “I’m told the weapon malfunctioned. Is that true?”

  “Is that what the discs show?” Anika asked.

  “I’m not asking the discs.” Command’s voice hardened. “I’m asking you. For the truth.”

  Anika considered her next words carefully. Without knowing if the discs had been changed, she didn’t know which truth to tell.

  “I chose not to fire,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “There were kids in the museum.”

  “Team B evacuated them.”

  “They missed one. A girl.”

  “You disobeyed a direct order.”

  “I don’t kill innocents.” Anika’s fingers dug deeper into the plush leather.

  “How many innocents will be killed if First Aryan and Syria Free carry out their attack?”

  “The intel was bad. There weren’t supposed to be visitors in the building. I made a judgment call.”

  “You’re not here to make judgments. You’re here to obey orders.”

  Anika didn’t say anything. Her gaze fell on some stones nestled in a shallow box in the corner of the desk.

  Command leaned forward and pulled the object toward her. She picked up the small wooden rake perched along the edge, then set it aside. Scrrrtch. One long sculpted fingernail dragged through the powdery substance inside the wooden box.

  “How long have you been in U.N.I.T., Anika?” Command kept her eyes on her handiwork.

  “Three years, five months, seven days.” Anika answered without hesitation.

  “Did you know that most operatives stop counting after their first year?” When Anika didn’t respond, Command continued. “On balance, you’ve been an asset to us. You’re smart, strong, a superior shot. We had high hopes for you. But you lack commitment. That lack has been your undoing. It can’t continue.” Command paused in her raking and locked eyes with Anika. “Your psych sessions reveal a strong desire to leave U.N.I.T. We’ve decided to give you that chance.”

  Anika’s eyes narrowed. She half expected the floor to open up and swallow her.

  “Your skepticism is understandable,” Command said. “Perhaps you’ll be reassured to know that your release is conditional. It involves Gianni.”

  Anika’s mind exploded with questions, but she held back.

  “We want you to persuade Gianni to help you escape from a solo.”

  A solo was a one-way mission assigned either to a knowing operative as an honorable way out of U.N.I.T. or to an unknowing one as a deadly surprise. Either way, the outcome was the same. No one made it through a solo alive.

  Command leaned back in her chair. “U.N.I.T. twelve-oh-five in northern zone needs a new Second. Gianni is under consideration. But they — and we — are concerned about his loyalty to the agency. We need to be certain that U.N.I.T. is his first priority. Above everything else. Above everyone else.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t play with me.” Command’s words scraped across Anika’s skin. “We are not blind to his feelings for you.”

  “They don’t outweigh his feelings for U.N.I.T.” Bitterness, like black ginseng, coated her tongue. How many times had she tried, and failed, to convince Gianni to find a way out for both of them?

  “We need more proof than your word.”

  “So if he refuses me … that will be your proof?” Anika asked. “That’s your loyalty test?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if he does help me survive the solo?”

  “He’ll forfeit the promotion.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all you need to know.”

  “What if that’s not good enough for me?”

  “You’re not in a position to bargain.” Command interlocked her fingers in a tight weave.

  “What happens to me if he refuses to help? I’ll die in the solo?”

  “If he refuses, there won’t be a solo.” Command inclined her head. “But you will have failed your assignment. As with any failure, there will be discipline. And you’ll remain in U.N.I.T. for as long as you live. As your contract specifies.”

  “And if I say ‘no’ to this assignment? ‘No’ to your loyalty test?”

  “You will face disciplinary action for your behavior today.” Command’s voice became granite. “D zone or exile.”

  Anika swallowed back the bile that surged from her stomach. She knew what exile meant. Execution.

  “What’s D zone?” she asked.

  “Trust me. You’d prefer exile.”

  Command raised her hand to the silver star attached to her earlobe and fixed her eyes on one of the wall monitors. “I see it. I’ll be right there.” Lowering her hand, she stared at Anika. “Do we have an agreement?”

  “I’d like some time.”

  Command’s lips tightened. “After your debriefing, go to detention chamber four. You’re confined there for the night. Report back here at oh-six-thirty hours. I’ll expect your answer then.”

  Chapter 3

  Twelve steps forward, pivot, twelve steps back. Anika paced the length of the detention chamber, her cloth wraparounds soundless on the padded floor.

  Images of the young girl, Gianni’s dark eyes, Jewel’s lilac nails, Command’s compressed lips played over and over in her mind.

  She rubbed at the muscle knotted between her neck and shoulder.

  Hssss. The door slid open and Gianni stepped over the threshold. He had cleaned up
from the mission, too. His olive skin gleamed and his hair hung straight and loose to his shoulders.

  Anika’s breath caught in her throat. Relief and desire crashed over her.

  “They let you in here?” she asked.

  “You’re not in Isolation.”

  “I might as well be.” She flung an arm at the windowless room, empty except for a bed, toilet, and sink built-ins.

  Gianni walked over to the bed and set down a plastic case. He inserted his thumb into the security lock and released it. Something tangy whiffed through the air.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Dinner. It’s not as good as my mother’s, but Cinzianella’s makes a decent Bolognese. Here.” He handed her cloth placemats and napkins, glass plates, and gleaming utensils, then tossed two gel-filled cushions on the floor. “Sit. Rest.”

  While she heaped mounds of pasta on their plates, he lit a moodstick that released a scent of wild roses.

  Gianni took a bite of food. “Not bad.” He chewed slowly, giving them both a few minutes of quiet, gratifying indulgence. Then, “How did it go with Command?”

  Anika choked down a half-eaten forkful of the spicy dish. She didn’t say anything, but flicked a glance around the room. No surveillance equipment stood watch in the corners, but it was here. Had to be.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I scrambled it, then told Evan I was testing our security systems. She says she can fix it in less than one-hundred-twenty-eight minutes. We have a bet going.”

  Anika smiled as she visualized the agency’s tech savant working like mad at her station, muttering obscenities, fighting to win the bet.

  “We can speak freely,” Gianni said.

  Her smile faded. “I wasn’t sure you had fixed the discs. I told Command I didn’t fire. Because of the girl.”

  A tinge of relief passed through her when Gianni continued to eat without a pause.

  “What did she say?” Even his voice gave nothing away.

  Anika looked down at the napkin in her hand. “You were right. She didn’t agree with my decision.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She’s considering disciplinary action.” She looked up. “Do you know what D zone is?”

  Gianni’s jaw clenched. “I’ll speak with her.”

  “What can you say?”

  “That I’ll keep a tighter rein on you.”

  “What?” She threw down the napkin. “The hell you will.”

  Anger clamped down on her desire to reveal the rest of what had happened in Command’s office.

  “Do you want to be exiled?” He pushed away his unfinished plate. “Or worse?”

  “Maybe.” She jumped to her feet and started pacing. “If the alternative means living the rest of my life in this nightmare.” She rounded on him. “How can you do it? How can you stay here?” At his silence, her mouth twisted. “Oh, I know. We’ve been through this before. How many more years of penance, Gianni?”

  “If it were up to the Italian government, four hundred years. One hundred for every person I killed.”

  “You didn’t kill them. And you didn’t know there were people inside the parliament!”

  “I led the northern faction of the resistance. I’m as responsible as those that planted and detonated the explosives.”

  “And the police that killed your parents when you were thirteen? Shot them as they were coming out of church? What price did they pay?”

  Gianni didn’t answer, but the muscle in his jaw started to work again. He set his napkin aside, unfolded his legs, stood. His movements were slow, as if he were talking himself through them.

  She recognized the technique. It helped neutralize emotions.

  He advanced toward her.

  Her whole body tensed, but she held her ground.

  He caught her off guard with his next move. As only he could. His hands shot out and wrapped around the back of her neck. Her breath hitched. He pulled her in close. Lowered his forehead to hers. His fingers massaged the knots along her neck.

  “Relax.”

  His warmth seeped into her. She closed her eyes and inhaled, like breathing in the air after a summer rain. “I’m sorry.” She whispered for his ears alone. “About the mission. How it went down. I know it will be a mark in your file.”

  “Let me speak with Command.”

  She tried to resist, to tell him “no,” but it was like an alcoholic trying to resist an open bottle. She yielded to his request even as her muscles yielded to his touch.

  “Come, cara. We’re running out of time.”

  She wished she could slow down time and make their moments together last as long as possible.

  “What are the rules about overnight guests in here?”

  Gianni smiled. “I wish I could stay the night, but my mission goes live in seventy minutes.”

  “Mission?” She remembered the exchange in the safe zone. “The one Jewel said had been moved up?”

  She had heard the rumors. They called it the honeymoon mission. With Gianni and Jewel. To smoke out an elusive middleman that the agency had been tracking for years.

  Gianni said nothing, revealed nothing. Not even to her.

  “So much for talking freely.” The corners of her lips turned down.

  “I’ll be gone for a while.”

  “How long?”

  “Weeks.” He drew out the word as if even that was too much information.

  Still she tried for one more opening. “Alone?”

  But he didn’t — wouldn’t — say more.

  She wanted to tell him about Command’s offer. She wanted to tell him that she had stalled for time, had risked Command’s wrath. Why did he have to make it so hard for her?

  “Shall we eat later?”

  The clear invitation behind his words penetrated her anger.

  This could be our last time.

  Given what had happened with Command, what might happen tomorrow, the urgency of this moment pressed in on her. It had been so long since his eyes had hungered for her, since his hands had reached for her.

  She threaded her fingers through his hair. The revelation about the loyalty test could wait.

  Slowly, as if enjoying an ultra-rich meal best consumed in small bites, Gianni undressed her one layer at a time.

  She let him set the pace, let the deep hunger for him build inside.

  When he had removed the last of her clothes, he loosened her braid and combed his hands through her hair. “You’re not in the field now.”

  He walked her over to the bed and laid her face down. Stroked her neck and shoulders. Moved lower. Down her back, her buttocks, her calves. By the time he turned her over, a light sweat covered her skin. She reached for him, but he trapped her hands, brought them to his lips, feathered her fingers with kisses, then set them back down.

  The physical longing for him turned into a bittersweet ache. Sadness shadowed her heart because this kiss, this whisper, this touch would be over too soon and then he would be gone.

  He reversed direction, his strokes starting low, moving up her legs and stomach. When he reached her breasts, he paused and cupped the sensitive skin. He lowered his mouth and took possession.

  She arched up. Her lips parted in a silent cry for more. He didn’t refuse her. Craving bare skin against bare skin, she yanked his shirt over his head.

  He scissored off his pants and pressed his full weight against her.

  Desire flared like embers kicked into flames. She nipped his shoulder and dug her nails into his back. He responded by pushing deeper into her. She wanted to possess him, claim him as her own before he disappeared on his sweetheart mission.

  She rocked herself up and drove him back. His hair, like waves of burnished gold, spilled over the sheets and his eyes smoldered with banked heat. She trained all five senses on him like a target, studying every detail — wide forehead and deep-set eyes, a slight crook in an otherwise straight nose. She recorded each quick inhale, moan, whisper. Inhaled his clean
scent and licked the salt from his skin. Stroked his chest, torso, and thighs, cataloging every ripple, every angle.

  He slid his hands around her waist and tried to settle her on him, but she wasn’t ready to stop exploring. She rose up and away.

  “Come here.” He pulled her back and pinned her.

  “I’m not done yet.”

  “Who said anything about being done?” He thrust up.

  Her breath hitched. “You’re going to pay for that.” She lowered her upper body and rested her forearms on either side of him. Her hair swooped over her shoulders, curtaining them. “I want to hear you.” She started rocking.

  His breath quickened.

  “Let me hear you.” She picked up speed. Her heart thudded in her chest, but she ignored it, intent on hearing the sound of him letting go, of losing control. For her.

  His hands tightened around her waist, lifting and lowering, faster and faster. He nudged her over the edge. She bit down on her lip to keep from crying out. Let me hear you.

  He released one hand from her waist and cupped it around the back of her neck. Pulled her closer until her ear hovered just above his lips. His long low groan rumbled through her body and imprinted on her heart.

  • • •

  She lay next to him, drowsy and content, as if whiskey-laced syrup filled her limbs. Gianni’s heartbeat murmured in her ear as she watched the slow rise and fall of his chest. Just a few more minutes, she promised herself, curling into him. Then she’d tell him about Command’s offer.

  Something pressed against her cheek. His silver medal, passed down from father to son through generations, gleamed against the darkness of his skin. She picked it up and ran her thumb over the raised outline of the bearded old man, dressed in loose robes and holding a stick — a staff, Gianni had called it — in one hand and a medallion of Jesus in the other. St. Jude, Roman Catholic patron saint of lost causes.

  She searched for the medal’s “scar,” a rough chip along the left edge, acquired sometime between when Gianni had last seen his father alive and when he had identified the bloody body in the morgue.

  Gianni only removed the medal when a mission demanded it. The oval and chain connected him to his family, his bloodline. When he had told her this in a rare unguarded moment, envy nipped at her heart. At least he had something to remind him of where he came from, whom he came from. Unlike her.