Page 40 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

The single syllable lands harder than a blow.

"When did you find out?" I tighten my grip on the tablet. The plastic housing creaks under my fingers. I want to throw it at him. I want to hit him.

"In the lockbox facility." He keeps his hands resting on his rifle. "When Ivy sent the routing manifest."

"And you decided to keep it a secret." The fury bleeds into my words, sharpening them into blades. "You looked me in the eye and let me believe my father was an innocent victim. You let me sit here and mourn him."

"I made a tactical decision." The sniper returns—the cold, objective operator taking control of the variables. "You were running on adrenaline and exhaustion. Hostile city, police checkpoints, a compound assault against trained mercenaries ahead of us." He finally looks up from the rifle. "Drop that on you in the middle of Bangkok and it shatters your focus. Gets you killed."

"You don't get to make that choice for me." I close the distance between us, leaning across the center console. The Kevlar presses against my sternum, but I ignore it. "You don't get to decide what truth I'm allowed to handle. My father was their accountant. He funded the men who took Andrea."

"And he's dead." Dax leans forward, meeting my aggression with his. The heat radiating off him fills the cab. "He's gone. He can't fix this. The only thing that matters right now is the objective."

"Don't talk to me about objectives." I shove the data pad against his chest, striking the ceramic plate of his vest. "You lied to me. You sat there and watched me grieve a man who doesn't exist. You let me hand over diamonds, bought with blood money, to buy us a terminal. You treated me like a fragile liability that would shatter the second things got ugly, instead of a partner."

"I protected you." He snatches the pad from my hand and tosses it onto the dashboard. "I protected your ability to function."

"I don't need your protection." I draw the M17 from its holster.

The movement is muscle memory. I keep the muzzle away from him, pressing the barrel flat against the dashboard, my finger indexed along the frame.

Dax's eyes drop to the weapon. He tracks the motion, his body tensing, ready to disarm me before I can twitch.

"I handled the broker in the relay den." I keep my voice dead even, staring into his gray eyes. "I saved your life on the stairwell. I haven't frozen once since we left that stage. Stop treating me like a liability you have to manage."

He stares at me. The tension in the cab crackles, thick and electric. Nothing like the protective tension of the motel room. This is a clash of wills—the friction of two people who refuse to surrender control.

"You aren't a liability." He shifts his weight, leaning closer. The scent of rain and gun oil washes over me. "You're the only reason I'm still breathing. But you're holding it together on willpower alone. When that adrenaline crashes, the reality of what your father did is going to pull you under."

"I won't let it." I refuse to break eye contact. "I don't have the luxury of falling apart. Andrea is inside that compound. My father built the cage she's trapped in. That makes it my responsibility to tear it down."

He searches my face, looking for the crack in the armor, for the panicked ballerina he pulled off the stage of the Grand Solarium.

She doesn't exist anymore.

A muscle jumps in his cheek. The cold detachment fractures into something else: respect. A dark acknowledgment of the woman sitting next to him.

"Alright." He reaches out and taps the top of my pistol slide. "Condition one. Check your chamber."

I pull the slide back a quarter of an inch. The brass casing of a 9mm round gleams in the dim light of the dashboard. I let the slide snap forward.

"Chambered." I holster the weapon.

"We go through the grate." He grabs the door handle, the muscles in his forearm flexing. "We stay in the shadows. Anyone in our way, we drop. No hesitation. No mercy."

"None." I grab the handle on my side, my fingers wrapping around the worn plastic.

He pushes the door open. The humid jungle air rushes into the cab, carrying the scent of decay and wet vegetation.

"Lily."

I stop, my hand on the door frame. I look back over my shoulder.

He stands in the darkness outside the truck, the rifle slung across his chest. A shadow detached from the tree line. Death, adapted to the violence waiting for us in the compound.

"I'm sorry about your father." The words are quiet, stripped of the commanding edge of his usual tone. A fleeting moment of vulnerability. "But I'm not sorry I lied. I'd do it again to keep you alive."

He turns on his heel and disappears into the brush.