Chapter 98

**Emilia POV**

“Hadassah wasn’t exaggerating,” Calum comments. “Torin has a small army guarding that Spanish villa.”
He and I are posing as electricians, attired in thick polyester overalls. He’s at the peak of the ladder that’s positioned against a streetlight, fiddling with the wiring. A streetlight that’s directly across the fortified estate that’s housing Hadassah’s mother. I’m at the bottom of the ladder with a toolkit ready for appearances since we’re in direct light of sight from the security booth at the crook of the cast iron gate.
“Not even I have the connections to pull that off—it needs tactical support and resources beyond our capabilities.”
“That may be beyond your capabilities, but not mine. Failing Hadassah is not an option for me.”
A bitter scoff escapes me and that earns me a critical look that he throws down at me.
He repeats the sound mockingly. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, Calum, that you took a bullet for her,” I say in an ungovernable gush. “You were prepared to endure a lot worse for her because you knew full well if you found Hadassah initially. It meant also being found by those holding her, which would’ve likely led to being tortured, then getting killed. It means you already risked your life and freedom for her. You might as well give her your soul at this point.”
He throws down more furiously nervous glances. “You want to do this now?”
“Do what?” I snap back.
He slams the circuit box close and seals it back up again. Calum checks himself before he climbs down the ladder and when his feet meet on the tarmac, he whips the legs of the ladders close and props it up on his shoulder. I walk ahead of him to the city issued van before I open the back doors to see the actual repairmen gagged, bound, and still unconscious at the back. Calum slides the ladder inside and I dump the toolkit recklessly, feeling his eyes burning through me as I round the back to go for the passenger side. Shortly, he hops in beside me and the van pulls out smoothly. Tension thickens the atmosphere, poisoning the air to the point that it’s unbreathable. It plagues Calum because he keeps shifting positions, switching one hand from right to left, unable to sit still.
“Emilia,” he says imploringly in a way that makes me want to yield to the tender embrace of voice.
He places a mindful hand on my knee, but I jerk it out of his grasp impulsively. Then the other side of him kicks in and he grabs my thigh—the muscles twitch as he wrenches one leg closer to him, forcing them both to split as I swing over an astounded glare at him. He keeps his eyes fixed ahead of him, apathetic to my glower that warns him to take back his hand.
“We’ve had this conversion before,” he says, his tone not bored nor jaded but exasperated. “Do we need to have it again?” he says as if he’s reprimanding his teenager daughter.
“I know she means a lot to you.”
He cuts me with a sharp look. “What is that even supposed to mean?” he asks with a flick of fury in his voice.
I shrug exaggeratedly. “You do?”
“You do realize that Hadassah's mama is a second mother to me,” he says with growing discontent, but managing it well. “When I was a kid, if I wasn’t at my house—I was at hers. It’s why Hadassah is like a sister to me. We were inseparable from childhood. Even though we’re the same age, she’s like a big sis to me. So I got the same dog in this fight because I care for her mother just as much as she does. Do you understand that?”
I nod meekly.
He removes his hand and I nearly snatch it back.
“Need to find a quiet place to dumb the van,” he mutters to himself.
“The underpass on ninety-seventh?”
“Newly installed CCTV surveillance,” he says and adds, “I checked.”
***
Calum and I enter the sparsely populated bar, changed into casual outfits. I nod knowingly at the bartender and he returns a solemn one in kind. He refills the shot glass of a patron before he slips away and ends up a few paces in front of us, leading us to the back. The dump and ditch was successful and now we’re back at our place of temporary accommodation. Our hideout is functional and far from luxurious, the perks of being a wanted fugitive. A status I never thought I would be branded with. The reason I first sympathized with Hadassah—more so. It’s because I’ve seen the system chew up a lot of good people and spit them out in a worse condition that they were in. I didn’t want to see that happen again. A dereliction of duty confronting a moral obligation that I had tethered myself to. Now I’m in too deep that I don’t see a way out and yet Calum’s presence is the soft glow guiding me out of the shadows.
When we’re in the back room. Calum closes the door behind him and walks over to the bartender. Together, they move aside a huge crate with expensive vintage to reveal the concealed compartment beneath it. He winds it and opens the hatch to unveil the hole to the underground safe room that’s meant to hide real fugitives from justice. The bartender and Calum clasp hands fast as he passes, then he nods again at me and makes his way out. Calum descends first and I follow, closing the hatch after myself.
The set up is cramped and basic with a double bed. Either side of the room is flanked with desks and bags of equipment. Calum goes for the one with his computer apparatus. From his time with Torin, he still has access to their system from a backdoor that he made. Sooner or later, Torin’s people will eventually find it and seal it. However, he mentioned that he had found something of interest about what Torin had his people digging into. Something that belonged to Santos. He didn’t go into details, but he said it was the key to everything we all want and need.
I meander over to my station. Everything is quiet between us, except for the soft clink of metal on metal and the faint hum of a fluorescent light overhead. The air is tinged with gun oil and solvent, a sharp, almost medicinal odor that lingers in my nose. Before me lies an array of deconstructed firearms, their components neatly arranged in meticulous rows—barrels, slides, triggers, and springs, all waiting for my attention.
The first piece I pick up is a cold, steel barrel, its weight solid in my hand. I dip a bore brush into the solvent, the liquid glistening under the harsh light, and I begin to run it through the barrel, back and forth. Piece by piece, I move through the array, each component requiring its own methodical care. Springs are stretched and checked for tension, trigger mechanisms disassembled and cleaned with precision tools. A tendril of pain lashes the lower region of my stomach—so intense I have to put everything down, flattening my palms on the desk as I hang my head.
“What’s wrong?”
I throw a cursory glance over and he’s staring at me with knotted brows.
“Nothing, just period pains.”
Out of nowhere, he bursts out laughing. “You for real? Is this why everything feels like an emotional minefield with you lately? Can’t believe I didn’t notice the signs.”
I turn my back on him, and I hear him stand up.
“And women wonder why we make jokes like: is it that time of the month?”
I whip around. “That’s because jokes are meant to be funny.”
I watch him dig in one of his bags, rifling through it until he pulls out a small bottle. He flags me over as he goes onto the bed, and it squeaks and whines under each movement as he settles on the center. He rests his rear against the wall and spreads his legs, gesturing to the open space with his eyes invitingly. Grudgingly, I walk over and I crawl onto the bed, slipping between his legs and flipping over so my back lies against his chest and his arms lace around me as he applies the contents on his palm before he does away with the bottle.
“What are you going to do?”
“Make you moan,” he says simply.
He lifts the ends of my top and I inhale a deep breath, feeling the coolness of the oil, a sensation that quickly warms as skilled hands begin their work. The first touch is light, almost exploratory, as his fingers glide across exactly the lower region of my stomach, his movements examining. Then, the pressure deepens, fingers and palms pressing firmly into the muscles, seeking out every point of tension. The strokes are slow and deliberate, starting at the base, kneading out the aches that have gathered there. A series of moans forcing their way out of me as my head drops against him, closing my eyes. The knots of pain unraveling, the muscles softening under his touch.
The pressure increases as he goes further up slightly, just enough to reach the deeper layers of muscle. Then he goes back down and his thumbs press into the tense spots, rotating in small, controlled circles that gradually loosen the tightness. I feel the release like a slow exhalation, a sigh of relief that spreads through my entire body.
“I have an idea,” I whisper. “But you’re not going to like it.”
“Talk to me.”
“We can just barely keep ourselves safe. At least we’re constantly on the move because we’re on mission. Get Hadassah out and get the books. It’s not just our only way to stay out of prison, but to stay safe. We can’t get that done right, not for Hadassah or her mother with her around us. Face it, it’s impossible for us to extract and keep her safe.”
“I’m ready to hear a solution.”
His grip is firm but gentle, as he works to relieve the built-up aches wound up too long. His pressure is just right—strong enough to be effective, yet still deeply relaxing. Every touch feels intentional, each stroke designed to coax the stress from my body.
“We turn her in.”
Calum’s hand freezes like I just uttered a profanity.
I pivot, turning my head so I can partially look back at him. “No, hear me out—”
“I get it,” he says, level-headed. “The CIA has the tactical resources to keep her under protection. But I’m sure they would leverage her safety for our surrender. You killed their own—they’re out for blood now.”
“British intelligence isn’t,” I counter. “I’m sure they have heard about my transgression and green-lit a kill or capture order. I still have powerful contacts and even my superiors know better than to believe that I went rogue without cause. Even if they do, they’re objective enough to keep Hadassah’s mother safe, not just from her daughter’s formidable enemies, both criminals and even her own countrymen. They will keep her safe.”
The final moments of his massage, thoughtful motions are spent on my breasts. His thorough fingers working on, around and under my round busts, rubbing with a gentle pressure that sends tingles down my spine.
“You’re right,” he concedes. “There’s no way we could protect her from either Torin or his deranged brother.”