Undercover Desires

Krystal “The bird is about to f*****g fly," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper as I pressed the earpiece closer. Justin’s response was immediate, "Roger that. About damn time." Three f*****g hours. That’s how long I’d been in the same goddamn position, and I was so f*****g over it. My legs? Numb. My patience? Gone. The night air had turned my limbs into ice blocks, and I stumbled when I finally moved. Pain shot through my stiff muscles, but I gritted my teeth and forced myself to the waiting car. Sebastian was already there, engine running, eyes locked on the white Volvo ahead of us. "Jesus, Krys, you look like hell," he smirked, barely glancing at me as I slid in. "Feel like it too, thanks for the f*****g reminder. Just drive." Seb gunned it, following our target as I exhaled sharply. Three f*****g months, four missing women, and a damn kid. We were on the bastard’s tail, a business person named Albert Morgan. A rich prick with a lot of secrets. Let’s back up. I’m Krystal Tocher, a member of an elite team in Washington D.C.'s human trafficking and s****l assault investigation unit. We don’t play nice, and we don’t lose. Our ten-member squad is led by Chief Mitchell Rodriguez—a man who sees through people’s bullshit and calls it out without hesitation. Sebastian? He’s a martial artist with the precision of a damn scalpel. Justin? A tech wizard who can probably hack into the Pentagon just to check his f*****g emails. Noah’s an MMA beast, and Jeremy could charm the pants off a nun. Alice? Looks like sunshine but will stab you if you deserve it. Harland and Jane, the power couple—he’s our weapons master, she’s an archer with a kill-shot. Travis, medical expert and part-time fighter. Then there’s me—Krystal. Archer, biker, runner. All of us can fight, shoot, and drive like hell because our job doesn’t give a s**t about rules. Back to the mission. The white Volvo stopped in front of a massive gate. Albert Morgan’s mansion screamed old-money, complete with too many f*****g windows and a vibe that reeked of corruption. "Holy f**k," Sebastian whistled, eyes scanning the fortress. "This guy lives in a whole-ass castle. How much blood money do you think it took?" Before I could answer, my phone buzzed. Chief’s text was clear: *Office. 15 minutes. Move.* "Change of plans. Let’s go," I muttered, and Seb peeled out like we were in a damn Fast & Furious movie. --- "We’re moving to New York," Mitchell announced the second we walked in. No bullshit. No warm-up. Straight to the point, as always. A wave of groans and expletives filled the air. "Oh, for f**k’s sake, man—" "Are you f*****g serious?" "D.C.’s not a big enough hellhole?" Mitchell held up a hand, shutting us up instantly. "The case is bigger than Morgan. It’s leading us to Steffen Oberoi. I need two people on him—Travis and Krystal." My brain stalled. "Wait—what the actual f**k? Why me?" Mitchell didn’t even blink. "Because you fit the criteria, and I trust you, kid." I clenched my jaw. Kid. That f*****g word. He’d been calling me that since I was fifteen—the year he found me after I lost my family in a car wreck. He saved my ass, pushed me through an MBA, and is now trying to nudge me toward a PhD. Not that it fills the void in my chest. I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. "Fine. Whatever. Guess we’re playing spy games in New York." Travis, standing beside me, snorted. "Could be worse. We could be stuck here with Seb’s f*****g attitude." "Eat s**t, Johansson," Seb shot back. I rolled my eyes. Travis f*****g Johansson. Adopted son of a goddamn corporate queen, Gabriella Johansson. The guy had a golden ticket to lead his mother’s empire but chose this instead. And now? His family’s connections were our golden ticket into Oberoi’s world.