Chapter 38: The Unwritten Mission
Frank woke up before dawn, restless but sharpened. His mind was no longer wandering—it was focused. The napkin’s words had already carved themselves into him: "Never get out of the fight. Be ready for a mission."
So he trained. A five-mile run along Draeton’s gray streets. Pushups, pull-ups, squats—every motion deliberate, every breath a reminder that his body was a weapon that couldn’t afford to rust. Afterward, he stood under the shower until the steam turned his reflection into a ghost.
He made himself a clean breakfast—eggs, toast, coffee. He ate without taste, his thoughts already at the department.
By 9:00 a.m., Frank was dressed, ID clipped to his belt, weapon holstered, the sharpness in his eyes unmistakable. He logged into the DPD system and began combing through cybercrime files, trying to anticipate where the next storm would break. Nothing yet. Just fragments. But his instincts whispered: something large-scale was coming.
The bullpen buzzed to life. Zoey Parker walked in with a man Frank hadn’t met before. She caught his eye immediately.
"Frank," Zoey said with her usual cool confidence, "this is Albert Sean. Transferred from the South Precinct. Thought you two should meet."
Albert extended a hand. "Heard you’re the guy who doesn’t miss. Marksmanship legend, right?"
Frank shook his hand firmly. "I don’t miss because I don’t pull the trigger unless I have to."
Albert smirked. "Sounds like discipline. I like that."
Zoey rolled her eyes. "Don’t let him fool you, Albert. He also eats like a bird. Yesterday’s lunch? Three spoons of rice and half a chicken leg."
Frank arched a brow. "Surveillance requires a light stomach."
Albert chuckled. "Professionalism—or paranoia?"
"Both," Frank replied flatly, and that earned a grin from Zoey.
Before the banter could continue, Frank’s phone vibrated. A call from the Head of Department. He stood immediately.
Minutes later, Frank sat in a closed room with senior officials, blinds drawn. The air was heavy with importance.
"Detective Miller," the Chief said, folding his hands. "Effective immediately, you’re being reassigned. Northvale. Tech hub. Rising cybercrime, black-market data trades, and now whispers of a larger conspiracy. You leave within 24 hours."
Frank leaned forward, tone steady. "I don’t work alone."
The Chief nodded. "Then choose your partner."
No hesitation. "Zoey Parker."
One of the officials frowned. "Why her?"
Frank’s answer was immediate: "Because I trust her. And in the field, trust is the only currency that matters."
Zoey was summoned. She entered cautiously, glancing between Frank and the officials.
"Detective Parker," the Chief said, "Miller has requested you as his partner for an off-record operation in Northvale. You understand this is dangerous. Do you consent?"
Zoey hesitated. Her eyes flicked toward Frank. He gave nothing away on his face, but something in his gaze steadied her.
She drew a breath. "Yes. I’m ready."
"Good," the Chief replied. "You both leave tomorrow. You’ll receive directives on arrival. For now, you are granted clearance and NOC."
They left the office together, the tension finally breaking in the hallway.
Zoey glanced sideways at Frank. "You really picked me without a second thought?"
Frank smirked faintly. "Would you rather I hesitated?"
She laughed softly. "Fair point." Then her tone turned serious. "We don’t even know what we’re walking into."
"That’s the job," Frank said. "But Northvale isn’t just cybercrime. It’s shadows with keyboards. People who know how to erase you with a line of code."
Zoey shook her head. "Guess we’ll just have to be smarter."
At lunch, they sat across from each other, poking half-heartedly at their plates.
Zoey leaned in. "So, hypothetically, what do you think we’re heading into? Hackers? Syndicates?"
Frank stirred his rice slowly. "If it’s Northvale... it won’t just be hackers. It’ll be syndicates using them. Money laundering, data theft, maybe worse."
Zoey sighed. "And here I thought Brackmoor’s cartel was bad."
Frank smirked. "Cartels pull triggers. Hackers pull strings. Which one’s worse depends on who’s got their hands tied."
Zoey shook her head, half amused, half anxious. "You and your riddles."
As they were leaving the cafeteria, Frank said, "Coffee. Tonight."
Zoey raised a brow. "At... eight?"
Frank gave a rare laugh. "Yeah. Seems like fate likes that number."
(Author’s note: Don’t worry, even Frank saw the irony of choosing 8 pm again.)
That evening, Frank drove to Zoey’s apartment. He waited in the car—for an hour. Typical. When Zoey finally came down, dressed elegantly but with a casual edge, Frank only smirked.
"You’re late," he said.
"You’re impatient," she shot back, sliding into the seat.
They drove in silence for a moment, then Zoey suggested, "Skip the coffee. Let’s do dinner."
Frank nodded. "Fine. But not just dinner."
The night stretched out before them on the long drive. Frank took her up winding roads toward Cinema Hill, a well-known restaurant perched on the ridge, famous for projecting old movies on an outdoor screen. From up there, the city sprawled below, glittering like a circuit board of neon.
Zoey stepped out of the car and gasped. "You didn’t tell me it had a view like this."
Frank allowed himself the smallest smile. "Some things are better left as surprises."
She looked at him, eyes softening. Then, without hesitation, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Frank."
The dinner had been straightforward—good food, easy vibes. They picked at herb-roasted chicken and a fig salad while some grainy old black-and-white movie flickered on the wall outside, the kind with no sound but plenty of drama. Talk stayed light, lighter than it’d been in weeks. Zoey cracked up a couple times, real laughs that lit up her face. Frank, the guy who usually kept his face locked down like a vault, let a smirk slip, his shoulders finally dropping a notch. For a fleeting moment, he felt almost human.
The drive back twisted up into the hills, city lights fading behind them. Zoey’s hand rested loose on the gearshift, her fingers grazing his with every shift, sending quiet sparks through him. That warmth from dinner had deepened, the air between them charged and unspoken. Halfway up, on a dead-straight stretch with no traffic and the valley dropping away below, Frank eased on the brakes. The car rolled to a stop in the middle of the road, gravel whispering under the tires. Nothing around—no cars, no people, just shadowed hills and stars overhead.
He killed the engine and turned, his eyes finding hers in the soft glow of the dash. "Zoey," he began, but words dissolved—he reached across the console, his hand cupping the back of her neck, drawing her close with a quiet urgency. His mouth met hers, firm and searching, a slow burn igniting as their lips parted, tongues tracing the edges of restraint.
She responded with equal fire, her nails pressing into his thigh, breath quickening against his skin. Her fingers tugged at his collar, freeing a button with a soft snap, the fabric parting to reveal the heat of his chest. Frank’s kiss deepened, a low sound rumbling in his throat as he tasted her—salt and wine and something uniquely her. His hand slipped beneath her blouse, tracing the curve of her breast, his thumb circling with deliberate pressure until she arched into him, a soft gasp escaping.
"Frank," she murmured, her hand moving to his belt, the leather yielding under her touch, the zipper a hushed rasp. She found him, hard and insistent, her palm gliding over him with a rhythm that made his pulse thunder.
He shifted her across the console in one fluid motion, her skirt riding up as she settled astride him, the seat reclining with a quiet click. Her warmth pressed against him, damp and inviting; his fingers explored her, slipping past lace to delve into her readiness, stroking deep while his thumb coaxed a tremor from her core. She moved with him, hips rolling in silent plea, her body yielding and claiming in equal measure.
No more barriers. He freed himself, guiding her down with a shared breath, the union slow at first—stretching, filling, a perfect lock of heat and friction. They found a rhythm then, urgent yet contained, her body rising and falling as he met her thrust for thrust, hands gripping her hips to steady the storm. Sweat beaded on his skin; her scent enveloped him, heady and intimate. He pulled her closer, lips at her throat, marking her with a press of teeth that promised more.
She shattered first, a quiet cry breaking free as waves of release pulled her under, her body tightening around him in exquisite pulses. Frank followed, a guttural sound escaping as he spilled into her, the world narrowing to the shared tremor, the aftershocks lingering like echoes.
They stilled, breaths mingling, her forehead against his shoulder while his hands traced lazy paths along her back. After a moment, he pressed a kiss to her temple—gentle, unguarded. "My place," he said, voice roughened by the night.
He eased her back to her seat with care, the air between them thick with the residue of surrender. The drive resumed in weighted silence, her gaze flicking to him now and then, a faint smile playing at her lips.
At his house, the door closed softly behind them. He lifted her without preamble, her legs encircling his waist as he carried her to the bedroom, the world outside forgotten. He laid her down, peeling away layers with deliberate hands—skirt discarded, blouse opened like a secret revealed. She met him in kind, fingers urgent on his shirt, seams straining under her pull.
Bare now, skin to skin, he held her gaze as he parted her thighs, his mouth following the path his hands had traced—tongue delving into her warmth, savoring the mingled essence of them both. She arched, fingers threading through his hair, guiding him deeper until release claimed her again, swift and shuddering.
He rose, desire rekindled like embers stirred, and entered her once more—slow, profound, their bodies aligning in a cadence of need. Face to face, he moved with measured intensity, her legs drawing him closer, whispers of encouragement spurring him on. The bed creaked softly under them, a counterpoint to their shared rhythm.
They shifted, her above him, then turning to offer a view that stole his breath—curves and shadows in the dim light. His hand connected with her skin in a sharp, possessive tap, drawing a gasp that tightened her around him, pulling another crest from her depths. Frank turned her then, drawing her hips to his, entering from behind with a thrust that blurred the line between control and abandon, his fingers tangled in her hair like an anchor. Release came again, fierce and binding, leaving them spent and entwined.
They collapsed at last, limbs heavy, the air cooling on fevered skin. She curled against him, his arm a steady weight across her waist. Sleep descended swiftly, breaths falling into sync in the quiet dark, the faint ache of connection a promise woven into the dawn.
And in the morning, Northvale awaited.