Cypher (The Dragon's Bidding Book 2)
Page 32
Why did he feel he needed to carry enough firepower to start a small war just to take an early morning jog? The perimeter of this base was nearly impenetrable. She’d spend most of the night slogging around in the jungle testing its security, until she found the one tiny flaw that allowed her to slip inside undetected. She’d best make a point of avoiding Mr. Great-Butt-Armed-To-The-Teeth, or this mission could go out the airlock real fast.
Behind her, the clatter of falling boxes sounded, punctuated by a muffled squawk. The jogger slid to a stop. He turned to peer into the darkness, his head cocked to hear every sound, his eyes shifting to catch the slightest movement.
Another box hit the ground, its contents scattering in a metallic crash. He stepped to the edge of the walkway, so close she caught the scent of male sweat, with an undertone of woodsy soap and a hint of gun oil.
As long as she didn’t move, he couldn’t see her, wouldn’t know she was there. Not unless he touched her. Fitz held her breath and tried to sink into the plastcrete of the wall at her back. Her telescopic augs zoomed in on his face. Worry lines creased his forehead as his eyes searched the darkness. Then he turned and stared at her.
Impossible. He can’t see me. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, so loud he must have heard it. Beneath the hood of the camosuit, sweat poured down her face, stinging her eyes. She blinked it away. All her combat systems went active. She could overpower him and escape, but her orders were to avoid all contact. Except for Youngblood.
She zoomed in on his blue eyes, alert for the second he decided to attack. The night had dilated his pupils until they were black with only the thinnest ring of color, reminding her of the luminous azure arc of a planet’s atmosphere seen against space. And those eyes were just as cold as that airless region. His face was angular with a long straight nose, square jaw and the ghost of a cleft bisecting his chin. All in all, too handsome a face for a hired killer. He must be new to this mercenary gig. If he survived a few years, he’d look like the other mercs she’d tangled with—like a tank had backed over his face.
A cacophony of squalls erupted behind her, reaching a crescendo as two small creatures exploded out of the alley and raced across the field. The jogger whirled to follow the pair, his elbow sweeping past her jaw. She twitched her head to the side to avoid getting slugged.
Tension flowed out of his body, and he scrubbed his hands over his face, walking away, moving quicker with each step until he was running again.
Her camouflage had held up, but not for much longer. The explosive appearance of the two rutting creatures had saved her butt, so she sent a silent thank you winging after them, glad someone was enjoying the night.
Fitz huffed out a breath. Her muscles had stiffened, and her knees ached in an old familiar pain. As she dialed up another hit of painkiller from her onboard pharmacopeia, the computer warned she’d already exceeded her recommended daily dosage. She ignored it. The steady ticking of the mission clock took precedence. Time to kick up the pace. She flashed into motion, crossing the open area in a blur of augmented speed.