Shadows of Loyalty

Chapter 15

The days that followed at Calvin's English manor passed slowly, like the calm before a storm.

Quinn, Sasha, Calvin, Gary, and Mason—who remained connected through secure comms—awaited the final coordination for the next step in uncovering the Hand of Justice and taking back their lives. Tension still lingered, thick in the air, but for the time being, they were safe. Hidden.

Calvin's estate was vast. Antique-styled halls, tall bookshelves, hidden passages, and towering windows that flooded rooms with golden sunlight—it was easy to forget they were fugitives, with the CIA breathing down their necks.

Despite the chaos outside, inside the manor, things settled into a kind of uneasy routine. Quinn spent time in the gym or on the phone with Mason, who was doing all she could from the inside. Calvin poured over documents and classified intel at the manor's study. Gary tried not to lose his mind.

Sasha? Sasha thrived in the lull.

One afternoon, Gary was lounging in the sitting room, legs kicked up on an ottoman, nursing a beer. Sasha strolled in, barefoot, holding an apple in one hand and a throwing knife in the other.

"You always drink like it's your job or are you just useless without a bottle in hand?" she asked, casually tossing the knife up and catching it.

Gary narrowed his eyes. "You ever not talk like you're auditioning for a Bond villain?"

Sasha smirked, circling him like a shark. "You know, for a military guy, you have surprisingly delicate hands. Maybe the field wasn’t for you. Maybe you should’ve stayed behind a desk, where it’s safe."

Gary rolled his eyes. "You want something, or are you just bored?"

"Bored," she admitted. "But it’s entertaining watching you flinch."

"I’m not flinching."

"You’re practically twitching."

With a wink, Sasha took a bite of the apple and sauntered away.

She wandered the halls for a while, exploring with the ease of a ghost haunting the estate. Her bare feet padded quietly over Persian rugs until a rhythmic thudding caught her ear.

Drawn by the sound, she followed it to the manor’s training room, where the door had been left ajar. She leaned casually against the doorframe. She saw Quinn.

Sasha’s eyes slowly traveled over him.

There, in the center of the padded space, Quinn was shirtless, sweat gleaming on his sculpted torso as he landed precise, controlled strikes against the bag. Every muscle in his body flexed with calculated effort—the hard ridges of his abs, the V-cut lines at his waist, the thick veins coiling over his biceps and forearms like tension cables. His shoulders rolled with each punch, his back glistening, a testament to years of discipline and conditioning.

She raised a brow, clearly interested but not surprised. "You always train like you’re auditioning for an action movie, or is this just for me?"

Quinn turned, breath slightly elevated but not strained. He grabbed a towel and wiped his face, giving her a half-smile.

"You caught me in my natural habitat."

"Well then, Mr. Muscles," she said, walking inside slowly, "how about a real challenge? Care to practice on a live target?"

Quinn tilted his head. "I don’t want to hurt you."

Sasha grinned. "I was built for pain, sweetheart. Show me what you’ve got."

The air shifted.

They stepped onto the mat. Quinn stood in a loose fighting stance, his eyes scanning Sasha’s posture. She mirrored him—flawless, composed, her stance elegant but coiled tight like a panther ready to pounce.

"You ready for this?" he asked.

"You? I’m curious to see if those muscles of yours are real or just for show."

They circled each other like predators. Quinn launched first—a feint followed by a sweeping leg kick that Sasha dodged with balletic grace. She retaliated with a flurry of jabs and a spinning heel kick that barely missed his chin. They danced across the mat, trading blows, blocking, ducking, and countering with perfect rhythm.

Sasha was fast, her movements sharp and precise. Quinn had raw strength and control. For every jab she threw, he answered with a parry. Every time he advanced, she twisted like smoke just out of reach.

Then he saw an opening. He lunged, sweeping her legs from beneath her and tackling her onto the mat. He pinned her wrists above her head, straddling her hips, breathing heavy.

Their eyes locked. Her lips parted slightly, breath warm against his face.

For a moment, everything stopped. The air between them pulsed with tension—something unspoken threading through the stare. Quinn’s grip was firm but careful, as if afraid holding her too tight would break the spell.

Something shifted.

Then, with a swift move, Sasha slipped one hand free, twisted her hips, and reversed their position. In seconds, she was the one on top, pinning Quinn to the mat.

Her knees straddled his waist, one hand on his chest for balance.

“Gotcha,” she whispered, but her tone held no mockery—just breathlessness.

Quinn swallowed hard, very aware of the curve of her hips, the warmth of her body pressing into his.

Sasha, hyper aware of Quinn's body under her, cleared her throat and stood quickly, offering a hand.

He hesitated, then took it, allowing her to pull him to his feet.

“That was… impressive,” Quinn said, trying to sound neutral.

She smirked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re not so bad yourself, Agent Reeds.”

They stood in silence for a moment, not quite sure what to do with the weight of what just passed between them.

Just then, Calvin’s voice called from down the hall, interrupting whatever might’ve followed.

“Quinn, Sasha. Briefing room. Ten minutes.”

Sasha gave Quinn a half-smile. “Back to reality.”

Quinn nodded, still catching his breath.

Whatever just happened—it wasn’t over.

The hallway stretched long and quiet, the soft click of their boots against the marble floor echoing off the manor’s stone walls. Quinn walked beside Sasha, both still slightly damp from sweat, the adrenaline of their sparring match still thrumming beneath the surface.

“You good?” he asked, glancing sideways.

Sasha didn’t look at him. “Better than you,” she replied coolly, but the corner of her lips twitched with something that resembled amusement. “I had you pinned.”

Quinn chuckled. “For about five seconds.”

“Five seconds is all I need.”

He shook his head with a smirk, but didn’t push further. There was a shift between them, something neither fully acknowledged but both clearly felt. A low hum of tension—electric, charged, not quite hostile. Not quite not.

They reached the study at the end of the hall, its wide oak doors already half open. Calvin stood at the head of a long table, maps, satellite photos, and a laptop spread before him. Gary leaned against the far wall with a mug in hand, looking up as they entered.

“You two done playing grab-ass in the gym?” Gary muttered, raising an eyebrow.

Sasha didn’t miss a beat. “Jealous you weren’t invited?”

Gary scoffed under his breath, but said nothing. Calvin looked up from the table, eyes flicking between them before gesturing for them to come in.

“Alright,” Calvin said, tone brisk. “Here’s what we’ve got.”

He turned the laptop so they could see a grainy overhead image of a port facility—industrial docks, scattered shipping containers, rows of warehouse-like buildings stretched across the shoreline.

“This is Leadenport,” he continued, tapping a red-marked building on the screen. “It’s a decommissioned shipping hub on the southern coast. The Hand’s operatives have been moving cargo through there under the radar. Arms, encrypted hard drives, potentially a classified government asset we believe was stolen from a defunct black site in Estonia two months ago.”

Quinn leaned over the table, eyes narrowing. “You’re saying it’s in there?”

“We’re saying it might be. They’ve gone quiet since Alicia went dark, but activity here’s spiked. Surveillance picked up known affiliates entering this building.” Calvin’s finger tapped the red structure again. “They’re setting up for something. We’re not waiting to find out what.”

“What’s the asset?” Sasha asked.

Calvin paused, then spoke carefully. “A hard drive. Highly encrypted. It contains a list—names, dates, locations. All corrupt government officials, black-ops commanders, defense contractors. Military and political figures across several continents. It’s the kind of thing that could shatter governments if it ever went public.”

Sasha’s expression darkened. “And The Hand wants to expose them?”

“Or control the narrative,” Calvin said. “Leverage. Blackmail. Chaos. Take your pick.”

“What’s the plan?” Sasha asked, arms crossed.

Calvin brought up another screen—schematics of the building’s interior, likely sourced from old city archives. “You two infiltrate. In and out. No gunfire unless necessary. Grab what intel you can, confirm the contents of the manifest, and get out before they know you were ever there.”

Sasha studied the layout, then glanced at Quinn. “In and out, quiet. You sure he’s capable of that?” she asked, arching a brow.

Quinn scoffed. “You really can’t go five minutes without getting in a dig, can you?”

“Just making sure your ego doesn’t get you shot.”

“Cute,” Quinn muttered.

Calvin ignored the exchange. “You’ll go in tomorrow. Tonight, you prep. We hit them at dawn. Gary will coordinate surveillance from the van. I’ve got a contact working on signal jammers to disrupt any offsite comms.”

“What about extraction?” Quinn asked.

“There’s a private access road behind the port. Gary will be on standby for evac. You’ll have a ten-minute window, max. You miss that, you’re on your own.”

Quinn gave a curt nod, then looked at Sasha, who was still eyeing the blueprints.

She leaned forward, finger tracing a narrow corridor on the west side of the building. “Here. This is your best blind spot. Old maintenance tunnel. It could be caved in, but if it’s open... we’ve got a way in and out without tripping the alarms.”

Calvin tilted his head. “I like it. Good eye.”

“I make a habit of seeing what others don’t,” Sasha said, still scanning.

Gary snorted. “Except for personality cues.”

Sasha smiled faintly. “I see those. I just don’t care.”

The group finished reviewing the logistics, marking fallback positions, signal codes, and timestamps. Calvin wrapped it up with a final reminder: “No mistakes. We’re already on borrowed time.”

As the group dispersed, Sasha lingered at the table for a second longer, fingers still trailing the edge of the map. Quinn stood across from her, watching her expression.

“You really don’t get nervous, do you?” he asked quietly.

Sasha finally looked up at him. “Not really.”

Their eyes held again. No teasing this time. No sarcasm. Just the quiet understanding of two people who'd walked the edge of death more times than they could count.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Sasha said, voice soft as she turned away.

“Yeah,” Quinn replied, but it came out low and thoughtful.

As she walked out, the candlelight brushed against the intricate tattoo on her arm, casting soft shadows across the mandala patterns and jewel-like ink.

Quinn stared a moment longer, then turned away—mind already racing through the mission, the risks... and the woman who somehow understood him without ever really trying.

And for the first time in days, he didn’t feel so alone.