Page 93 of Covert Mission
A lock-picking kit. Not a cheap thing off Amazon. This is a pro-level setup. And next to it, a small digital recorder no larger than a tube of lip balm. And there’s a very small camera with one single purpose—photographing documents. But the fingerprint kit might just take the cake.
When she looks up at me, there’s something in the windows to Camile’s soul I haven’t seen before. Deceit.
She’s avoided my questions, she’s been vague and mysterious, but this is the first time that the woman I’ve got an unnerving attraction to is going to lie to me.
“Care to start talking?”
After staring at me for a loaded second, she looks away, biting the inside of her lip. Hands hanging limply by her sides, she looks out the window. “It’s complicated, Lucas.”
There has to be steam curling off of my body. “That’s all you’re going to say?”
With her features tightly masked, Camile walks to the mess on the floor and kneels down. She shoves the spycraft tools into her pack, pushes two satellite phones back inside, and zips the bag closed. When she’s done, she stands up and looks me right in the eyes. “Please, don’t ask anything else.”
Rigid from my toes to my scalp, with my throat bone dry, and my intestines bathing in ice-water, I stare down at a woman who seriously misunderstands who I am.
Fuck that.
Fuck, that noise.
I’m about to wade neck-deep in Camile’s shit. Whoever the fuck she is. Hell, Camile might not even be her real name.
Circuits in my brain crackle.
My nostrils flare—I could breathe fire—I’m so angry. Far angrier than I should be, but with this woman, nothing in my emotional control owner’s manual applies.
Seeing my fury, Camile takes a couple of slow, careful steps back.
I fight to keep my tone low. “You need to tell me everything. Who the fuck are you?”
She skirts past me.
I follow her until she’s against the door. We breathe angrily at each other. I plant my hand on the door above her head.
When she turns the color of chalk and blinks four hundred times in the span of sixty seconds, I cup her face in my hand. “Christ, I’m sorry.”
She licks nervously across her pale lips.
“I don’t hurt women. I would never hurt you, no matter what fucking bullshit is going on right now. But you owe me an explanation foreverything.”
A pained wince tightens her features. She levels her gaze on the center of my chest and exhales raggedly. “When you were a SEAL, you had things you couldn’t talk about.”
This very true statement reverberates between us. My work still involves secrets that I can’t talk about.
“Who do you work for?”
“FamFind.”
I tip her chin up. The maelstrom of emotions in her hazel eyes kicks me in the gut. This woman is in deep. Probably over her head.
I feel sorry for Camile. She’s been through a lot. She’s the way she is because of what she’s experienced in life.
A lot of things click into place. If she really is an operative of some sort, that explains a lot about who she really is.
I’ve been around enough people in the spec ops and spy world to know that these individuals are chosen because they have broken foundations. Things that made them distrustful of the world.
Before I really fuck up and kiss her again, I step back.
She sags against the door and massages her temple with a trembling hand.