I STOOD UNDER THE SPRAY of the shower, water pounding down on the back of my neck like it could rinse the doubt out of me. It couldn’t. I’d known that the second I stepped in. The heat barely touched the chill coiled in my gut.
Nathan was in the cabin, probably toweling off, still flushed and stretched out from what we’d done. What I’d done. What I wanted. Or told myself I wanted.
The steam fogged the mirror, blurred the edges of my reflection. Jack Cooper was supposed to be confident. Cool. Capable. Jack Cooper didn’t hesitate in the dark. Jack Cooper knew what the mission required and didn’t flinch. But that wasn’t the face I saw staring back at me.
It was mine.
Sean Peters.
And I was cracking.
We were wheels-down in less than thirty. Myanmar wasn’t a stopover—it was a checkpoint. A proving ground. I had to pull it together. Lock it down. Get the intel and stay the course. Whatever it took.
I shut off the water and braced my hands on the cool marble wall. Took one deep breath. Then another.
This wasn’t about me. It couldn’t be. Not if I wanted to make it out of this alive.
The plane dipped low through the clouds, smooth as silk. I barely felt the wheels touch the tarmac. Nathan glanced across the cabin at me, a quiet smirk playing on his lips as the runway lights streaked past. We’d made it to Myanmar.
I sat back against the plush seat, letting the descent settle in my bones. This wasn’t just any jet. The Gulfstream G700 was a marvel of aviation—sleek, aggressive, and built for men who didn’t wait in terminals. It had carried us from the gleam of Dubai to the shadows of Southeast Asia in record time, punching through the sky at Mach 0.925 like it owned the stratosphere.
Twenty oval windows flooded the cabin with light as the sun crested the horizon. Five distinct living zones stretched the length of the aircraft: a forward lounge, a dining suite, an entertainment area, a private bedroom, and the lavatory with a rainfall shower I’d already broken in. The cabin was wide—over eight feet across—with six-foot ceilings and air so fresh it made me forget I’d just crossed continents. The G700’s 7,500 nautical mile range meant we could have kept going, nonstop, if the mission needed it. Everything on board, from the plush leather upholstery to the whisper-quiet engines, spoke to engineering excellence and obscene wealth.
I looked around. Leather seats that cradled the body like memory foam, accent lighting that adjusted for circadian rhythms, a table that transformed into a conference surface with a flick of a switch. This wasn’t travel. It was control wrapped in luxury.
Nathan didn’t flaunt it, but every inch of this plane screamed power. And now that we were here, now that the mission was entering a new phase, I had to remember who I was. Who I wasn’t.
Jack Cooper had stepped onto the G700 in Dubai. He’d disembarked in Myanmar. And if I wanted to finish this mission, I had to stay in character—no matter how hard that might be.
A black Mercedes waited at the edge of the runway, engine humming. The moment the stairs folded down, we were ushered toward it without a word from the staff. The tarmac heat was thick and immediate, but the car’s climate-controlled cabin swept it away the instant we climbed in.
The drive into the city was quiet. Tropical green blurred past the windows. I tracked the route loosely in my head while pretending not to care. We passed through checkpoints, into narrower streets shaded by hanging foliage and ornate stonework, until we pulled up to a lush resort tucked behind towering palms and high gates.
It looked like paradise. It never was.
The suite was the kind of place that came with a private butler and a scent profile curated for relaxation. Nathan tossed the keycard on the credenza and unbuttoned his collar. “Hang out here,” he said, already halfway out of his jacket. “I’ve got a meeting, shouldn’t take more than an hour. Order anything you want.”
Then he was gone, leaving the echo of footsteps and a silence I didn’t trust. I stood in the middle of the suite, unsure whether I was the guest or the asset. Maybe both. The game was still on—and now, I had the board all to myself.
I waited a few minutes, made sure Nathan was well out of sight. Then I slipped out of the suite and took the stairs down one level. A soft knock on the service door brought it open just enough for me to be yanked into the room.
Maya was there, along with two others from the field team already unpacking gear.
“We’re set up for a full tap on the hotel Wi-Fi and Nathan’s devices,” she said without preamble. “Encryption’s strong but not unbreakable. We need time.”
“He said he’d be gone an hour.”
“Then we’ve got fifty-five minutes. And he’s headed to the bank—we’re tracking the car. There’s a safety deposit box registered to one of his shell companies. Our guess? That’s where the drive is.”
I stepped closer to the table, eyes scanning the gear. “So once he has the malware—”
“You’re going to have to identify the device and find a way to either copy it or compromise it. Ideally before he gets a chance to deploy.”
Maya didn’t look up from her laptop. “This is the closest we’ve been to a traceable payload.”
I nodded, jaw tight. This wasn’t ideal, but it was movement. A foothold.
“Let me know the second something pings,” I said. “Until then, I’ll keep his attention on me.”
“You sure you’re up for it?” she asked.
I met her eyes. “Jack Cooper is.”
Then I turned and headed back upstairs, one floor between me and the target, the game still on and every move counting more than the last.
We moved fast, but not carelessly. I led the team up into the suite while Nathan was still out, letting them slip in behind me like ghosts. Every step was calculated, every placement meticulous. One by one, they installed bugging devices—in the lamp base, behind the TV, inside the thermostat panel—each piece precisely positioned to avoid detection. They checked signal strength, adjusted for angles, double-checked connections. No fingerprints, no disturbances, no sign we’d ever been there. The place looked untouched because it had to.
“This gets us audio and partial visual,” Maya said. “Enough to track conversations and movement. If he brings the drive here, we’ll know.”
I nodded. “We just need to make sure it stays here long enough to do something about it.”
She offered a faint smile. “That part’s on you, Jack.”
The door clicked shut behind them as they cleared out. I reset the lock and exhaled, tension simmering just beneath my skin. Showtime was coming. I didn’t even get the chance to lean against the wall before Maya’s voice came through comms, sharp and low: “We’ve got movement. Nathan just pulled up.”
No time to second-guess the sweep. Whatever we missed, whatever edge we had left to file, it was already too late. The suite looked perfect. It had to be.
I straightened and crossed to the living room, pacing toward the minibar like I had all the time in the world. Seconds later, the door opened.
Nathan stepped in, casual and cool, like he hadn’t just returned from possibly retrieving a weaponized exploit. I didn’t look directly at him—couldn’t risk betraying that I knew more than I should. Instead, I tossed a look over my shoulder and gave him a smile.
“I was thinking,” I said, “what this place could really use is a hot tub.”
Nathan raised a brow. “You’re in luck. There’s one on the terrace.”
I let my smile deepen. “Then that’s exactly what I’m craving.”
He dropped his keys on the console and started unbuttoning his shirt. “Be my guest. I’ll join you in a minute.”
Perfect. The bedroom would stay untouched. The living areas would stay busy. And the last place he’d ever think to check for bugs—well, that would stay right where it needed to be.
I slid my phone out of my pocket and made my way to the terrace, the warm air wrapping around me like a second skin. From where I stood, I had a clear line of sight back into the suite. My phone’s camera zoomed just enough to give me eyes on the briefcase Nathan had tossed on the bed.
He moved casually, but I caught it—the way his hand slipped into the side pocket. He pulled out two small disks, older than I’d expected. They were smaller than CDs, black and unmarked. Old school. Analog enough to avoid suspicion, digital enough to carry hell inside.
I snapped photos and sent them through the encrypted uplink to Maya.
“Visual confirmation,” I whispered. “Two disks. He’s got them.”
“Copy that,” she responded. “We’ll cross-reference model types. Good work, Jack. Now keep him talking.”
I tucked the phone away, heart thudding under calm skin. I stepped into the hot tub, steam curling around me, and waited for my mark to join me—none the wiser.
Music spilled softly from the terrace speakers. I cranked the volume just a touch louder. Just enough to mask anything I didn’t want picked up by microphones.
Nathan emerged a minute later, towel slung low on his hips. “You’ve got good taste,” he said.
I smiled, settling deeper into the jets. “I know.”
He dropped the towel and stepped into the tub.
Whatever happened next—we had control of the board.
As soon as Nathan was seated, I straddled him, slipping over his lap beneath the surface of the bubbling water. His eyes widened as he realized I wasn’t wearing a swim suit. That flicker of surprise turned quickly to hunger.
“You’re full of surprises,” he said, voice low.
I leaned in, close enough that my breath warmed his cheek. “Thought I’d give you something to think about.”
He grinned, the water lapping around us as I adjusted my hips, shifting deliberately, keeping the upper hand even as my pulse pounded in my throat. Nathan wasn’t supposed to be the one in control tonight.
This was the game. And I was still playing it.
I reached down and wrapped my hand around Nathan’s cock, stroking it gently beneath the surface. The heat of the water, the way his breath hitched against my neck, the flex of his thigh beneath mine—every detail became a thread in the fabric I was weaving. He leaned back slightly, his hand tracing the line of my spine.
He’d meant to keep it measured. Strategic. Another move in a long, careful game.
But heat has a way of rewriting intention—and once Nathan leans back, once the breath changes, once touch stops being hypothetical, there’s no such thing as just pretending anymore.
Beyond this point, Jack Cooper stops managing the moment—and starts wanting it.
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