By the time I grab a car from a nearby parking lot to head to the Chavez warehouses, it’s four in the morning. By the time I get to the warehouse district, which is about a hundred deep, all one hundred owned by him, it’s four thirty. His ownership leaves every one of them as a possible cover for the lab. And timing-wise in January, I might have hours of darkness, but workdays and shift changes are approaching, limiting me to not much more than a drive-thru of the territory. What I find is that none of the ten warehouses Chavez’s operation occupies run night shifts. The other ninety have random security levels, which means they can be searched with ease. And that is a little piece of hell and a big chunk of time.

For now, I focus on those ten Chavez-operated locations, and a flicker of a flashlight here and there on the rooftops indicate human patrols. And humans can override electronics. Those security people become my focus as potential insiders or clues to where we focus our searches. They have to have cars, but getting close enough to find out where they are parked is too risky.

Instead, I park at a side street, and at six thirty, a car finally pulls out of one of the lots. Intending to follow it, I give it space and ease behind it, shooting a photo of the plates, and then pulling in behind it to a Dunkin Donuts. The driver parks his BMW near the front door, the car an indication that he’s no ten-dollar-an-hour security guard. I park next to him and size him up as he exits his vehicle and walks to the door.

Big and muscular, he’s in jeans and a T-shirt, not a uniform, with what I know to be prison tats down his arms, and he carries himself with the kind of confidence only another killer understands. And you don’t hire a guy like this to guard textiles. That toxin is in one of the warehouses he monitors, with a ninety-percent chance it’s in the one he exited from this morning.

I don’t risk entering the donut shop, and him recognizing me later if Amanda and I manage an introduction to Chavez. I text the plate number to Bear, and then back out of my spot, pulling back on the road. It’s nearly seven when I return the car I’ve borrowed without incident, and make my way to the hotel. I text Amanda on my way up the elevator, letting her know it’s me who is about to be at the door. She answers back with: Julie and I are waiting for you in our new operations center. I stare at the text. Amanda and her cat are waiting on me. I think I now have a cat. I’d have rejected this idea even a week ago, but the reality here is that I’m not an agent anymore. Neither of us are, and the cat’s not a pain in the ass or anything. It makes her happy, and I’m not ready to say I like it, but I don’t dislike it.

I exit the elevator on our floor, and exhaustion begins to hit. I need a bed. I need Amanda in it. At our door, I swipe the key code panel that goes green, and enter the suite, shutting us inside, and flipping the latch into place. Heading through the living area, I make my way to the kitchen and then dining room, aka the operations center, to find Amanda sitting at the table where I’d left her. Only now her hair is obviously soft and freshly washed and she’s changed into a black tank top, while Julie now has her bed on top of the table where she’s curled up sleeping. The cat and my woman, who is as beautiful as ever, her green eyes now focused on me.

It’s pretty damn surreal right about now.

But aware that I’m way past due for a shower, one that she’s already had, I keep my distance, leaning on the doorjamb. “Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” she says. “How did it go?”

“They have the kind of hired help that doesn’t get hired to look after textiles. I think we’re on the right target. I’ll break it all down once I have a shower and we both get some sleep. Did you test the sample?”

“Yes,” she says. “And there was no toxin left in the water.”

“Which tells us what?”

“A number of things,” she says. “The good news in this is that the toxin doesn’t survive in water indefinitely. That limits exposure even if it makes it into a water supply. The bad news is that we now know it can now survive twelve hours in water, which means it could still reach a lot of people. But the bad could be worse than we know. The sample was not tested at intervals, so we don’t know if it can survive two days or even three. What is the lifespan in water?”

“And you can’t make an antidote with that sample.”

“No. Because it’s just water now. And the lab that I was provided with doesn’t have this toxin in it. Bear’s number was in my phone. I called him. I told him that if they want an antidote, I need that toxin.”

“And?”

“He did his thing and I did mine and ultimately, I’ll have it first thing in the morning, or rather later this morning. I handled it.”

“Of course you did,” I say, reaching up to grip the top of the doorframe, trying to get the ache out of my arm, the muscle around the bullet’s path knotting up. “I need that shower before I get anywhere near you again.”

“Yes. You do. And a shave.”

I scrub my two-day stubble. “Yes, I do.”

I roll my shoulders and Amanda narrows her eyes on me. “Your arm hurts,” she says, reading me as few do.

“It’s an annoying throb,” I say, dismissing the pain that is really nothing compared to many of the injuries in my past. “We need that sleep that I mentioned. Meet me in bed.”

“I need to finish up some notes from the testing,” she says. “I’ll be there in a few.”

I nod, and make my way down the hallway to the master bedroom. Entering the large room that is a bit too boxy and colorful to suit me, I pass the king-sized bed on some kind of pedestal, and the curtains covering the wall of windows. This entire place is not my style, but it’s still luxurious, and that’s what I want for Amanda. I head on into the bathroom that is so damn white my eyeballs hurt, and head straight to the walk-in closet at the back of the room. Rows of clothing line the rectangular-shaped space, mine on the left and Amanda’s on the right. I want her clothes in my New York closet. Her New York closet. But she’s right: the agency isn’t going to just let her go. Not without the war I’m prepared to fight.

I grab a pair of sweats and open a drawer inside a built-in dresser where I discover in this version of me, I’m a Jockey guy. Returning to the bathroom, I open the shower door and turn on the hot water, then strip away my clothes. The bandage comes next, and judging from how soiled it is, it’s well past due that I change it, but the wound appears to no longer be bleeding. I toss it in the trash, and step into the shower, letting the hot water run over my face, and then washing away what is now two days of grunge.

I halfway expect Amanda to join me, and damn sure want her to, but I finish up and she has not. I dry off and wrap the towel around my waist before walking to the sink to inspect my arm now that the blood is gone. While it’s one hell of a long line of stitches, it’s definitely not bleeding anymore. I dig through the toiletry bag sitting on the sink, and brush my damn teeth before digging out the supplies that I need to shave. Lathering up, I get to work, and I’ve just finished half my face when Amanda appears in the doorway, her tank top paired with black leggings and bare feet, bandages in hand. “I need to play doctor again and check your arm, but I also brought you meds and cookies.” She climbs on top of the counter, beside me. “They’re on the nightstand. You need to eat to take the pills.”

I arch a brow at her mid-swipe of my razor. “Because I’m such a delicate flower?”

She laughs. “You are. Very delicate.” She watches me a moment and says, “I was just fantasizing about the next few minutes.”

I pause and look at her. “And?”

“I was thinking that I should offer to finish shaving for you, as some kind of test of trust—the dramatic blade to the neck kind of test. I’d scoot in front of you, that towel all that is between us, and the whole thing would go from dark and intense to naked and intense.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“I’m eyeing your arm, and it’s not my best work. In fact, I think you need to fire your doctor and keep me away from the blade.”

“That was a tease, woman,” I say, dragging the razor over my face several times. “And if I wasn’t so damn tired, I’d make you pay for it.” I look at my arm. “It’s just fine. It’s not bleeding and it’s not infected. And I’m done here anyway so you don’t need a blade.” I clean off the blade, wipe my face, and lean toward Amanda, cupping her head to pull her close. “We have lots of time for naked and intense.” I brush my lips over hers. “Tonight I’ll settle for a bed with you next to me. I miss you next to me.” I kiss her again, and because I want to actually talk to her now that the accusations are behind us, I release her and grab the sweats from the edge of the tub to pull them on.

She watches me, no shyness at all, but then shyness was never a trait Amanda embraced. “I still need to bandage your arm.”

I walk to her and help her off the counter, setting her on the ground, my hands on her hips. “Do it in the bedroom, where the bed is waiting on us. Did you say cookies?”

She smiles. “Yes. And milk. Believe it or not, they had it in the fridge.”

“Sold,” I say, kissing her temple and walking to the bedroom.

“But wait until I check your arm!” she calls out, and by the time I’m sitting on the edge of the bed with a bite of chocolate chip cookie in my mouth, she’s standing in front of me, setting medical supplies on the nightstand.

“You didn’t wait,” she chides, at which point the cookie is gone.

“A man has to eat,” I say, downing the medication with a swallow of milk.

She gives a delicate little snort. “In your case, enough to feed a small starving nation,” she says, moving to stand directly in front of me, smelling like some kind of sweet flower I want to gobble up. My hands settle on her hips again. “Now what, sweetheart?” I ask. “Because I can offer a few ideas.”

She glances down at me. “You said you wanted to sleep.”

“I said I want you in bed with me,” I rebuke gently.

“I think you said both,” she replies, “but in bed with you sounds good.”

“Does it?” I ask, inviting her to offer me more of an explanation for leaving. “Because you were away a long time.”

“Too long,” she says softly, her lashes lowering a moment, while I wait for that more I was looking for, but it doesn’t come. She opens her eyes and immediately turns her attention toward my injury, giving it a quick inspection before reaching for some kind of tube on the nightstand. “Antibiotic cream,” she announces, holding it up. “Just so you know I’m not poisoning you.” The words that might have been delivered playfully a few minutes ago are not now. I can hear the hint of betrayal in her voice, the anger at me refusing that numbing shot for the stitches.

Her mood has shifted. Mine has, too, and we’re feeding off each other. We want what we had together, but there is baggage now. There is distrust on an emotional level that has nothing to do with who might kill who.

“We were at a bad place when I refused that injection,” I say. “And though I dislike anger as much as I do doubt, I was angry.”

She inhales and lets it out. “I know,” she says, still giving me too little when I still want more.

“Stick that bandage on me,” I say. “and let’s go to bed together for the first time in three years.”

She gives a tiny nod and refocuses on my arm, smearing it with the cream, before setting the tube on the nightstand. “Bear made a comment that seemed to indicate you are involved in the fashion world. What kind of contract work do you do?”

And here we go. In a place sure to lead us to at least one of my many sins these past three years. “I started out taking high-risk CIA-offshoot contracts with big paydays. Jobs that let me get in and out, and back to looking for you. Eventually, I ended up working for Shane Brandon. A good man with a bad family. He ended up deep inside some bad shit. And he fell in love with a woman who was in danger. I have helped him navigate those problems, and I’ve been working for only him.”

She tilts her head. “Why do I sense there’s more?”

“I gave up on you.”

“What?”

“Three months ago, when Shane’s family was falling apart, I stopped looking. I focused on saving Shane and Emily’s lives. I had to. They’re good people and—”

She cups my face, and her reaction is not pain or hurt or a sense of betrayal. It’s something I think only Amanda could offer. “And that’s why,” she says, “the Assassin never scared me even though I knew what you were capable of. What’s your number?”

I think she needs to know that she can handle it, but perhaps she’s right. I do, too. I tangle fingers into her hair and stare at her, searching her face for something that changes my mind before I press my cheek to hers this time, my ear to her ear. And then I whisper the number.

Her hand settles on my face, and she leans back to look at me. “I guessed higher.”

“No,” I say, “You didn’t.”

“I did. I did the math. I thought through the years you’ve been doing this. The situations we face. And I guessed higher.” She strokes my jaw. “You do what others can’t do and you do it to save lives. And somehow, you find a place to put it and stay sane. I loved you for that. I still love you. You are so very strong. I am not that strong.”

I wrap my arms around her and roll her onto the bed with me, the two of us face to face, my legs twined with hers. “You survived three years alone, in hell, living in that shithole. You are strong and beautiful and I never stopped loving you. Not one day you were gone.” I kiss her, my mouth closing down on hers, licking into her mouth, and then stroking deep.

She moans and arches into me, as if she is not close enough. As if she can’t get close enough, and I drag my mouth from hers. “I want to feel you next to me,” I murmur, dragging her shirt over her head, and tossing it away. The absence of a bra entices me, and my fingers splay between her shoulders blades and I mold her chest to mine. “God, I missed this.”

“Me, too,” she whispers. “Me—”

I kiss her again, slowly, deeply, drinking her in like a man who hasn’t drunk in a lifetime. Three years of a lifetime. I strip away what clothing she has left, mine following, every hard part of me absorbing every soft, perfect curve of this woman. And for the first time since we found each other again, there is no anger. There is no fucking. There is just us, touching each other, making love. Us, with possibility between us. The us of the past, but with newfound understanding of how easily we can lose each other.

And as hard as I am, as thick and aroused, I don’t rush to press inside her. I kiss her shoulder, her neck, her nipples. Her stomach. Her knee. Her sex, licking her, tasting her, but not teasing her. Not now. Not this day. Today, I just want her sighs, her moans, her pleasure. And the way she shudders and shakes for me when she tumbles off the edge. Finally, I am on top of her, pressing inside her, kissing her with the sweetness of her own arousal on my tongue, and the bittersweet victory of being inside her now, with three years lost. I savor her, and us, watching her face while her sighs and pants become a drug on my tongue, more addictive than the one before.

I kiss her deeper, hunger taking hold, and where we were gentle, we become wild. Our hands all over each other, our bodies pressing together. My cock thrusting into her harder, faster, and I roll us to our side, my hand cupping her backside, pulling her hard against me as I thrust into her. She buries her face in my neck and shudders into a new release, and I follow, the insanity of my quaking matched only by hers. And when it’s over, for long moments we lay there, clutching each other, as if we’re afraid to let go. And I am afraid to let go. When not so long ago, I would have proclaimed myself afraid of nothing.

We eventually ease apart and end up under the blankets, the alarm set for four hours later, but I lay awake, still holding her. Thinking about what Bear had said tonight about her parents and classified information, even in the wake of the potential of innocent, mass numbers of lives lost. And I’m back to my prior questions: Could Franklin have been behind the original kill order? Did someone in the agency fuck up by allowing him to manipulate the organization?

Those records related to her parents might be gone, but someone, maybe even Bear, knows what I need to know. And he will tell me, if he does.

I grab my personal cellphone from the nightstand, and text Bear: I’m still waiting for that proof I asked for. And don’t forget the list of lab assistants and the samples for Amanda’s work.

I don’t expect an answer and I don’t get one. But when I think about my mistakes, when I think about the time lost, and damage done to my relationship with Amanda, I want what I want on this, and I better get it soon. If I don’t, I will do what I should have done three years ago, when I was told Amanda and her parents committed espionage. I will remind the masses involved in this who they are fucking with: I’m the Assassin and there are consequences to manipulating me and lying to me, and there is nothing but death to those who hurt my woman.

I’m coming for whoever did this and that body count I gave Amanda is about to get bigger.