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acute-crashout-jeyuso · 3 days ago

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Checkmate: Book 3 of 3 BTR Series. A Jhea Fanfic.

Chapter 8: Warsaw..

Flashback - Warsaw - April 2022

Rhea kept close to Morris as he weaved through the cobblestone streets of Warsaw, his stride confident and purposeful. The chilly evening air bit at her skin, and she tucked her hands deeper into the pockets of her jacket. The glow of the streetlights illuminated the rows of historic buildings, their facades bearing the scars and beauty of time.

Morris greeted every passerby with a warm “Dzień dobry,” his Polish flowing effortlessly. The locals responded with polite smiles and nods, clearly familiar with his presence in the area.

Rhea quickened her pace to match his, her steps faltering slightly on the uneven stones. “Why are we here?” she asked, her tone sharp with frustration and confusion.

Morris stopped abruptly, turning to face her. His piercing gaze pinned her in place as he leaned in closer. “Mamba,” he said in a low, deliberate tone, “use your other tongue.”

Rhea narrowed her eyes at him, a spark of defiance flickering behind them. Her jaw tightened before she exhaled, switching languages as instructed. “Dlaczego tu jesteśmy?” she asked in Polish, hesitant but clear.

Morris smirked, satisfied. “There it is,” he said, gesturing for her to keep walking. “You’ll find the answers faster if you stop asking in the wrong language.”

Rhea rolled her eyes, biting back the urge to retort. She followed him as he turned down a narrow alleyway, her curiosity growing with every step. The further they ventured, the more her unease mixed with intrigue.

Morris finally stopped in front of an unassuming door with peeling paint. He glanced over his shoulder at her, his expression unreadable. “Patience, Mamba. What you’ll learn here will change everything.”

Rhea crossed her arms, skepticism etched into her features. “And if I don’t want to learn?”

Morris chuckled softly, his laugh carrying a sinister edge. “You don’t have a choice.”

Rhea’s stomach knotted as he pushed the door open, the creak of its hinges echoing into the dark space beyond. She hesitated before following him inside, her instincts screaming that whatever lay ahead would test her in ways she wasn’t prepared for.

Rhea stepped into the dimly lit space behind Morris, her boots clicking against the concrete floor. The door slammed shut behind them, locking out the bustling sounds of the Warsaw streets and replacing them with a thick, suffocating silence. The room smelled of old wood, stale cigarettes, and faint traces of gunpowder.

“Welcome to the real world, Mamba,” Morris said, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He gestured toward the center of the room, where a large, beat-up wooden table stood surrounded by mismatched chairs.

Rhea’s gaze swept over the men and women seated there, their eyes cold and calculating as they turned to appraise her. Some were smoking, others had papers and blueprints spread out before them. On the table sat weapons—pistols, rifles, even a grenade or two—and small, unassuming packages wrapped in brown paper.

“This,” Morris said with a flourish, “is family.”

One of the men leaned back in his chair, his scarred face splitting into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “So, this is your famous Black Mamba?” His accent was thick, his Polish tinged with an undertone of mockery. “She doesn’t look like much.”

Rhea bristled at the comment but kept her expression neutral. “And you must be the court jester,” she shot back, her voice steady and sharp.

The room fell silent, save for the faint creak of the man’s chair as he leaned forward, his grin replaced by a dark scowl. Before he could respond, Morris chuckled and clapped his hands together.

“She’s got fire, doesn’t she?” he said, his tone amused. “That’s why she’s here. She’s going to learn how things work—how we work.”

Rhea’s stomach tightened, but she forced herself to stand tall as Morris motioned for her to follow him further into the room. He led her to a wall adorned with maps and photographs. Strings and pins connected locations, forming a tangled web of routes and drop points.

“This,” Morris began, gesturing to the map, “is our lifeline. Weapons from the east, drugs from the south, and money—” he tapped a photograph of a nondescript warehouse—“laundered through our friends in the west.”

Rhea’s eyes flicked over the details, her mind racing to process the scale of the operation.

“And them?” she asked, nodding toward the table.

“Partners,” Morris said simply. “Each one of them runs their own piece of the business. Sergey handles weapons. Ana oversees transportation. Malik takes care of distribution. And Kamil here,” he pointed to the man who had taunted her earlier, “is security. Keeps our secrets safe.”

Rhea glanced back at the group, her gaze locking with Ana’s. The woman gave her a subtle nod, a faint glimmer of respect in her eyes.

“You expect me to trust them?” Rhea asked, her voice low.

“No,” Morris said with a sly smile. “I expect you to prove you’re worth their trust.”

Before she could respond, the sound of a door opening echoed through the space. A new figure stepped into the room, their face hidden beneath a hood. They carried a sleek black case, which they set on the table with a resounding thud.

Rhea’s pulse quickened as the hooded figure opened the case, revealing an arsenal of high-tech weaponry. The room buzzed with murmurs of approval and intrigue.

Morris leaned in close to Rhea, his breath warm against her ear. “This is the world you’re stepping into, Mamba. Sink or swim. Are you ready?”

Rhea clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She didn’t answer, but the resolve in her eyes spoke volumes. “Yes..”

“Alright, Mamba. Time to get your hands dirty.” He nodded toward Kamil, the scarred man who had taunted her earlier. “Kamil will oversee your first task. Don’t disappoint me.”

Rhea’s jaw tightened as Kamil smirked, clearly enjoying the power shift. He motioned for her to follow him out of the room. “Come on, little snake,” he said, the mocking tone back in his voice. “Let’s see if you bite.”

Rhea followed him down a dimly lit corridor that reeked of damp concrete and stale smoke. She said nothing, but her muscles tensed with every step. She couldn’t let them see her falter—not now, not ever.

They stopped in front of a steel door. Kamil punched in a code on the keypad, and with a hiss, the door slid open, revealing a storage room filled with crates and duffel bags. The faint glow of a single overhead light cast long shadows across the space.

Kamil gestured toward one of the crates. “Here’s the deal. That crate needs to make it across the river by sunrise. What’s inside doesn’t concern you, but if it doesn’t get there…” He trailed off, his grin widening. “Let’s just say Morris won’t be pleased.”

Rhea stepped closer to the crate, her eyes scanning it for any identifying marks. It was unassuming, wooden, and about the size of a small coffee table.

“How am I supposed to move this?” she asked, her tone steady despite the knot forming in her stomach.

Kamil leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. “Figure it out. You’ve got three hours. Oh, and don’t get caught. The cops around here don’t play nice.”

He turned to leave, but Rhea’s voice stopped him. “What’s the catch?”

Kamil glanced back over his shoulder, his smirk fading slightly. “The catch is, someone’s watching. You screw this up, and they’ll make sure you don’t get a second chance.”

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Rhea alone with the crate. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Her mind raced as she considered her options.

She examined the crate more closely, her fingers running over the rough wood. It was heavy, too heavy for her to carry alone. She spotted a dolly in the corner of the room and quickly wheeled it over, using it to lift the crate with some effort.

The next challenge was getting it out of the building without drawing attention. She retraced her steps back to the main corridor, keeping her movements as quiet as possible. The weight of the crate made the dolly’s wheels squeak faintly, and every sound felt like a gunshot in the stillness.

When she reached the back entrance, she hesitated. The alley beyond was dimly lit, and shadows moved at the edges of her vision. She couldn’t tell if it was her nerves or if Kamil’s “watcher” was already tracking her.

Rhea pushed the door open and rolled the crate into the alley, her heart pounding in her chest. She had a rough idea of where the river was—Morris had shown her the route earlier in the day—but getting there without running into trouble was another matter entirely.

As she navigated the narrow streets, she kept her head down, avoiding eye contact with the few people who passed her. The crate rattled against the dolly, drawing more attention than she would have liked.

Halfway to the river, she heard the faint sound of footsteps behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, but the street appeared empty. Still, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

She quickened her pace, her grip tightening on the dolly’s handle. The footsteps grew louder, closer, until she could no longer ignore them.

“Hey!” a voice called out, sharp and commanding.

Rhea froze, her pulse racing. She turned slowly, her eyes meeting those of a man dressed in plain clothes but with a badge clipped to his belt.

“Where are you going with that?” he asked, his gaze shifting to the crate.

Rhea’s mind raced. She forced a small, nervous smile. “Just delivering some supplies for my uncle. He owns a shop by the river.”

The man narrowed his eyes, clearly not convinced. He stepped closer, his hand resting on his hip, where a gun was holstered.

“Let me see what’s inside,” he demanded.

Rhea’s breath caught in her throat. She knew she couldn’t let him open the crate—it would blow everything. Thinking fast, she let out a shaky laugh.

“You don’t want to do that,” she said, her voice low. “It’s… medical supplies. For his clinic. Some of it’s pretty sensitive, and I don’t think Morris would appreciate it if—”

The man’s expression shifted at the mention of Morris’s name. He took a step back, his hand dropping from his gun.

“You work for Morris?” he asked, his tone suddenly cautious.

Rhea nodded, trying to keep her composure. “Yeah. And he doesn’t like delays.”

The man hesitated for a moment before stepping aside. “Get going, then. And tell Morris to keep his business off my streets.”

Rhea didn’t respond. She simply nodded and continued toward the river, her legs trembling beneath her.

When she finally reached the drop point, she exhaled a shaky breath and set the crate down. A shadow emerged from the darkness—a tall, imposing figure with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“You’re late,” the man said, his voice gravelly.

Rhea straightened, her nerves replaced by a surge of defiance. “You got your delivery, didn’t you?”

The man smirked, taking the dolly from her. “Morris was right about you. Let’s see if you can keep it up.”

As the man disappeared into the shadows with the crate, Rhea stood alone by the river, the cold air biting at her skin. She had passed the test, but she knew it was only the beginning. She heard a honk and Rhea turned to see who it was. Kamil smiled at her and said “Get in.. let’s take you back to your King..”

—

Next Day.

The rain came down in sheets, blanketing the streets of Warsaw in a slick, silver sheen. Morris leaned against a rusted car in the lot behind an abandoned factory, puffing on a cigarette. Rhea stood in front of him, her black hoodie pulled tight around her face to shield her from the rain. Her hands were shoved into her pockets, the tension rolling off her like waves.

“Alright, Mamba,” Morris said, flicking his cigarette into a puddle. “Let’s see if Charles’s little protégé can really hold her own.”

Rhea’s jaw tightened at the mention of her mentor. Charles had taught her everything he knew—Hapkido, discipline, and survival. She owed her skills to him, but hearing Morris say his name in such a condescending tone lit a fire in her chest.

“What’s the job?” she asked, her voice calm and even.

Morris gestured toward a side door on the factory. “Inside, there’s a group of guys who think they can cut me out of a deal. They’ve got weapons, but they’re not expecting company. I need you to remind them who they’re dealing with.”

Rhea raised an eyebrow. “How many?”

“Five. Maybe six.” Morris shrugged like it was no big deal. “Don’t kill them—just send a message.”

Rhea’s fists clenched at her sides. “And if they fight back?”

Morris smirked. “Then you fight harder.”

With that, he stepped aside, leaving Rhea to approach the factory alone. She took a deep breath, steeling herself. Her muscles coiled like springs, ready for the challenge ahead.

Inside the factory, the air was damp and thick with the scent of mildew. The faint hum of machinery echoed off the concrete walls, and Rhea could hear the muffled voices of men in a nearby room. She crept along the shadows, her footsteps silent as she approached the source of the noise.

Peeking through a crack in the door, she saw five men seated around a table, stacks of cash and several guns laid out before them. They were arguing in rapid Polish, their voices heated.

One of the men—a burly figure with a scar running down his cheek—slammed his fist on the table, silencing the others. “Morris thinks he can scare us? He’s got another thing coming.”

Rhea slipped inside the room, her movements fluid and precise. She positioned herself in the corner, waiting for the right moment.

The man with the scar pulled out a knife, twirling it in his hand. “If Morris wants to play games, we’ll give him something to think about.”

“Start thinking now,” Rhea said, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.

The men turned, their faces a mix of confusion and anger.

Scarface stood, his knife glinting in the dim light. “Who the hell are you?”

Rhea stepped forward, her stance low and balanced. “The one who’s about to remind you why you don’t mess with Morris.”

Scarface laughed, the sound harsh and grating. “You’re just a kid. Get out of here before you get hurt.”

Rhea didn’t respond. Instead, she moved—fast. She closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, her hands striking out in a blur. She disarmed him with a precise twist of his wrist, sending the knife clattering to the floor.

The room erupted into chaos. One of the men lunged at her, but she sidestepped, using his momentum against him. She hooked her foot behind his ankle, sending him crashing to the ground.

Another man swung a wooden plank at her, but Rhea ducked, the air whistling past her ears. She retaliated with a spinning back kick that connected with his chest, knocking the wind out of him.

Scarface recovered quickly, grabbing a pipe and charging at her. Rhea waited until the last second before sidestepping and grabbing his arm. She twisted it behind his back, forcing him to drop the weapon.

“Enough!” she shouted, her voice echoing off the walls. She tightened her grip on Scarface’s arm, making him wince in pain. “You’ve made your point. Now here’s mine: Morris owns this city. If you cross him again, I’ll be back—and next time, I won’t go easy on you.”

The men groaned in pain, some clutching their sides, others glaring at her with a mix of fear and anger. Scarface nodded, his face pale. “Alright. We get it. No more trouble.”

Rhea released him and stepped back, her eyes scanning the room to make sure no one was foolish enough to try anything else.

“Good,” she said, her voice cold. “Clean this mess up. And stay out of Morris’s way.”

She turned and walked out of the room, her steps steady despite the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

When she returned to the lot, Morris was waiting, another cigarette between his lips.

“Well?” he asked, his tone casual.

“It’s done,” Rhea said, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.

Morris nodded, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “You never disappoint me, Mamba. Charles would be proud.”

Rhea didn’t respond. She wasn’t doing this for Charles—or for Morris. She was doing it for herself, to survive, to prove she wasn’t just another pawn in someone else’s game.

As she walked away, the rain washing the blood from her knuckles, she knew the next test would be the final one… and she wondered if she could survive it.

—

Day After Next.

Rhea’s eyes snapped open, and her lungs screamed for air. Darkness surrounded her, heavy and oppressive, pressing down on her chest. She shot her hands out instinctively, expecting open space, but her fingers met smooth, unyielding wood.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as the horrifying realization sank in: she was in a coffin.

A muffled vibration startled her, followed by the faint sound of Morris’s voice.

“Six hours, Mamba. That’s how long your oxygen will last. If you want to live, figure it out. If not, well… the choice is yours.”

The vibration stopped, leaving her alone in suffocating silence.

Rhea lay motionless, the weight of her predicament sinking in. The panic was building rapidly, clawing at her throat, threatening to consume her. Her breaths quickened, and she squeezed her eyes shut, summoning every ounce of mental discipline she had.

Charles’s voice echoed in her mind, calm and firm: “Don’t let fear take over. Control it, or it will control you. Focus, Demi..”

Rhea forced herself to inhale deeply, counting to three before exhaling slowly. The simple action steadied her pulse and brought her back from the brink of hysteria. The stale air was thick and oppressive, but she couldn’t waste it.

“Stay calm. You can do this,” she whispered to herself. Her voice trembled, but she latched onto the words, repeating them until her breathing slowed.

When her head was clearer, she moved her hands along the lid, feeling for any weak points. The wood was cold, solid, and smooth, but not indestructible.

She shifted her legs, her boots scraping against the bottom of the coffin as she adjusted her position. With her knees bent, she pressed her feet against the base of the lid and pushed with all her might. The wood groaned but held firm.

Rhea paused, her mind racing. She needed leverage—more strength than her legs alone could provide. She adjusted her position, bracing her back against one side of the coffin while planting her feet firmly against the lid.

Balling her fists, she slammed them into the wood with all her might.

The first hit did nothing but send a jolt of pain up her arms. Her knuckles stung, and she could feel the skin splitting. She gritted her teeth and hit again. And again. The dull thud of her fists meeting wood filled the space, a grim, relentless rhythm.

Her hands throbbed, but on the sixth strike, a faint crack broke through the silence. Her breath hitched. Encouraged, she slammed her fists into the same spot repeatedly, ignoring the blood now dripping down her arms.

The wood began to splinter, tiny shards breaking free and pricking her skin. With a final, desperate push of her legs, the lid cracked open slightly, and dirt began to pour in.

The first rush of dirt made her cough violently, and she turned her head to the side, trying to avoid inhaling it. The soil was damp and heavy, filling the coffin quickly and pressing down on her body.

Rhea wriggled her arms upward, using her elbows to push through the loose soil. It felt like swimming against a riptide—every movement required agonizing effort.

Her muscles burned, and her lungs begged for air. The pressure of the dirt was relentless, threatening to crush her as she clawed her way upward.

“I’m not dying here,” she growled through gritted teeth, her voice muffled by the earth.

She used every ounce of strength she had, her fingers digging furiously through the soil. Her vision blurred, and her body screamed for rest, but she kept moving.

After what felt like an eternity, her hand broke through the surface. Cool night air brushed her fingers, and she gasped, clawing at the opening until she pulled her head free.

Rhea inhaled deeply, her lungs filling with precious oxygen. She dragged herself out of the ground, collapsing onto her stomach as the rain began to fall.

She lay there for a moment, the cold rain washing away the dirt and blood. Her entire body ached, and her hands were raw and bleeding, but she was alive.

When she finally gathered the strength to stand, she stumbled toward the rendezvous point Morris had mentioned earlier. Her legs felt like lead, but her anger kept her moving.

Morris was waiting under a makeshift tarp, seated at a wooden table with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He raised an eyebrow as Rhea approached, soaked and caked in mud.

“Well, well,” he drawled, a slow smile spreading across his face. “The Mamba rises.”

Rhea’s hands curled into fists. “Is this what it takes to prove myself to you?” she demanded, her voice low and steady despite the fury boiling beneath the surface.

Morris chuckled, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “No, Mamba. This is what it takes to prove yourself to yourself. You’re stronger than you think. You just needed to see it.”

Rhea glared at him, her chest heaving. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to make him feel the pain and fear she’d endured. But instead, she squared her shoulders, meeting his gaze with icy defiance.

“I’m not your pawn,” she said.

Morris leaned back in his chair, smirking. “No. You’re my Mamba…”

—

Later That Night

Rhea stood under the scalding water, her body trembling from exhaustion and residual adrenaline. Dirt and blood swirled down the drain, washing away the evidence of her ordeal, but not the memories. She leaned her forehead against the cool tile, allowing the heat to soothe her aching muscles.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she turned off the shower, grabbed a towel, and stepped out. She dried off quickly, moving through her routine with precision. Blow-drying her damp hair, brushing her teeth, cleaning the dirt and blood from her knuckles—each task felt like a small reclamation of herself after being pushed to her limits.

Her hands stung as she dabbed alcohol on her split knuckles, her jaw clenching against the sharp burn. She methodically wrapped each hand in fresh bandages, her movements slow but steady. Once finished, she dressed in a loose tank top and joggers, ready to collapse into bed.

But as she opened the bathroom door, she froze. Morris was sitting on the edge of her bed, his posture relaxed, one ankle resting on his knee. He looked up at her with his usual unreadable expression, his hands folded in his lap.

Rhea’s exhaustion morphed into irritation. “I can’t have one night to myself, can I?” she asked, exasperation lacing her tone.

Morris smirked, unbothered by her tone. “We’re here to work, Mamba. When do you think you’ll find the time to do that?”

Rhea rolled her eyes and walked toward the bed, too drained to argue. She sat down next to him, the mattress dipping under her weight. Despite her frustration, she couldn’t completely ignore the way his gaze softened as he looked at her.

Morris tilted his head slightly, his voice lowering. “You know how much I adore you, don’t you?”

Rhea turned to him, her brow furrowing. “I do,” she said carefully.

Morris leaned forward, clasping his hands together. His tone turned uncharacteristically serious. “When I pass away—”

“Stop,” Rhea interrupted sharply, her heart skipping a beat. “What do you mean, ‘when you pass away’? What the hell are you talking about?”

Morris sighed, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You think I’m invincible, don’t you? The great Morris, untouchable. But even I have my limits, Mamba. My time in this world isn’t infinite.”

Rhea stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. For all his strength and calculated confidence, Morris was just a man. A man who had built his empire on lies, violence, and betrayal—but still a man.

“Why are you telling me this now?” she asked, her voice quieter.

He looked at her with an intensity that made her stomach tighten. “Because when the time comes, this empire will need someone strong enough to carry it. Someone smart, ruthless, and capable of surviving anything.”

Rhea shook her head, leaning back slightly. “You want me to take over? Is that what this is about?”

Morris’s smile returned, but it was tinged with something softer, almost vulnerable. “I want you to realize your potential, Mamba. I see it in you—the fire, the drive. You’re not just another pawn in this game. You’re the only one who can protect what we’ve built.”

She let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through her still-damp hair. “What you’ve built? Morris, all I’ve done so far is bleed and claw my way through your little tests. You think that makes me capable of running your empire?”

Morris leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’ve done more than survive, Rhea. You’ve thrived. You’ve shown me that you’re willing to do whatever it takes—no hesitation, no fear. That’s what it takes to lead.”

Rhea looked away, her hands resting in her lap. The bandages on her knuckles were already spotted with blood, a reminder of the night she’d just endured.

“I never asked for this,” she muttered.

Morris reached out, his hand brushing against hers. “None of us ask for the lives we’re given, Mamba. But we adapt. We survive. And if we’re lucky, we thrive.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of his words hanging between them. Rhea turned back to him, her eyes narrowing.

“If you think I’m going to be your heir or whatever this is, you’ve got another thing coming,” she said firmly.

Morris chuckled, standing up and smoothing out his suit jacket. “You don’t have to decide right now. But think about it, Mamba. The world we’ve built is dangerous. You’ve proven you can survive it, but thriving? That’s a choice only you can make.”

He walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “Rest up. You’ve earned it. But don’t get too comfortable—there’s more work to be done.”

With that, he disappeared into the hallway, leaving Rhea alone with her thoughts. She stared at the door long after it closed, her mind racing.

Taking a deep breath, she lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The idea of running Morris’s empire felt absurd, but his words lingered, planting a seed of doubt and possibility in her mind.

She closed her eyes, exhaustion finally pulling her under. But even in sleep, her mind refused to quiet, the weight of his proposition pressing heavily on her subconscious.

—

The Following Day..

The room was dimly lit, the faint hum of a fluorescent light overhead the only sound besides the slow, deliberate footsteps of Morris’s partners. Rhea stood at the center, her posture firm, but the feeling of anticipation gnawing at her insides. She knew something was coming—a new task, one that would test her in ways she couldn’t predict.

Morris was absent from the room, leaving Rhea alone with the trio of men that served as his closest allies. They were tall, their bodies built for intimidation, and each carried the weight of experience in their eyes. Rhea had never been one to back down from a challenge, but there was something different in the air today. The men in front of her were serious—something more than a typical task was at stake.

One of them, this man had long black hair and blue eyes.He didn’t speak at first, instead reaching into a weathered satchel at his side. The other two flanked him, watching her closely.

“We’ve got a job for you, Mamba,” the man finally spoke, his voice low and gruff. His tone told her he was not someone who wasted time with pleasantries.

Rhea didn’t flinch. “I’m listening.”

He pulled out a thick envelope, the kind that carried weight both in content and consequence. He handed it to Rhea, his eyes never leaving hers.

She opened the envelope, scanning the brief but direct contents inside. It was a map—one with cryptic markings leading deep into the Carpathian Mountains. The words “Weapons Transport” were scrawled in bold, dark ink.

“You’re to take these weapons to a contact in the mountains,” the man with the blue eyes continued, his voice unwavering. “There’s a drifter waiting. He’s unreliable, but he’s got the resources we need. The weapons are valuable—so don’t screw it up.”

Rhea’s gaze shifted from the map back to him, reading his face. “How far?”

“You are to drive 17 hours to get to the town before the Mountains then eight days on foot. You’ll be alone with Morris, and we’ll be watching from a distance,” another man chimed in, his voice smooth, with a hint of amusement.

Rhea met his gaze but said nothing. The idea of trekking across harsh terrain for days on end didn’t faze her—it was the implications of the mission that intrigued her. A contact in the mountains? A drifter, no less. She had dealt with unpredictable people before, but this felt different.

“How do you know this guy’s trustworthy?” she asked, folding the map and slipping it into her jacket.

“He’s not,” the blue eyed man replied bluntly. “That’s why you’re going.”

Rhea narrowed her eyes. “You want me to babysit a drug dealer in the mountains?”

“Not exactly,” the third man interjected, his voice soft but serious. “He’s more of a… loose cannon. He doesn’t take kindly to anyone who isn’t useful. That’s why you’re going in with Morris.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Morris can handle himself. I don’t need a babysitter.”

The man with the blue eyes chuckled. “Not about babysitting. It’s about control. If anything goes wrong, we need you to be the one to handle it.”

“Control,” Rhea repeated, her voice colder now. “I’m not here to play your games. Just tell me what needs to be done, and I’ll do it.”

The three men exchanged glances, and the one with the scar nodded, as if satisfied with her response.

“Morris trusts you. That’s why we’re putting you on this,” he said. “This is about more than just delivering weapons. This is about proving loyalty. Not to Morris… but to us.”

Rhea stood still, processing the weight of his words. This wasn’t just a job—it was a test of trust, of proving her place in the power structure that held their world together. Her every action from here on out would be scrutinized, and the stakes were higher than ever.

“Understood,” Rhea said finally, her tone firm.

The blue eyed man smiled slightly, as if he knew she was already calculating her next move.

“You leave in the morning. Make sure you’re ready, Mamba.”

Rhea nodded, turning away from them and walking toward the exit. She could feel their eyes on her back, watching, assessing. They weren’t just testing her skills—they were testing her resolve. And she would pass.

She would make sure of it.

—

Day 1

Rhea tightened the straps of the large, heavy backpack filled with weapons. The unforgiving air of the Carpathian Mountains cut through her jacket as she glanced at Morris, who adjusted his own load with ease. The terrain before them was jagged and steep, the dense trees surrounding them casting eerie shadows under the dim morning light.

“You sure you’re ready for this, Mamba?” Morris asked, his voice as smooth as ever, but his tone carried a weight of seriousness.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” Rhea replied, pulling her gloves tighter onto her hands.

Morris nodded, satisfied. “Good. The drifter we’re meeting is unpredictable. The weapons we’re delivering are worth more than most people make in a decade. We can’t afford mistakes.”

Rhea kept her expression neutral, but her mind raced. This wasn’t just a test of endurance—it was a test of trust, loyalty, and skill. Every step on this journey would determine her standing with Morris and his network.

The trail started steep, with loose rocks making every step treacherous. Morris led the way, his boots crunching over the frost-bitten ground. Rhea followed closely, her eyes scanning the environment for any signs of movement.

By midday, the sun began to warm the air, but the weight of the backpack dug into her shoulders. Sweat dripped down her temple as they reached a clearing.

“We stop here for water,” Morris said, dropping his pack and sitting on a large boulder.

Rhea did the same, rolling her shoulders and flexing her hands to ease the ache. She pulled a water bottle from her pack and took a long sip.

Morris watched her with a critical eye. “You’re handling the weight better than I expected.”

Rhea smirked. “Did you think I’d buckle on day one?”

He chuckled. “No. But I’m impressed you haven’t complained yet. Most people do by now.”

Rhea shrugged, her voice calm but determined. “I’ve been through worse.”

Morris leaned back, his gaze turning serious. “You’ll need that attitude. This isn’t just about carrying a heavy pack. The drifter we’re meeting is dangerous, and these mountains don’t forgive mistakes.”

As they continued their climb, the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and red. Shadows grew longer, and the temperature plummeted.

The sound of snapping twigs made Rhea freeze in her tracks. She raised a hand to signal Morris, who immediately halted.

“What is it?” Morris whispered, his hand subtly moving toward his concealed weapon.

“Someone’s watching us,” Rhea said, her voice low.

From the thicket ahead, a figure emerged. A man, ragged and wiry, with a knife glinting in his hand. His eyes darted between Rhea and Morris, his intent clear.

“Your packs,” the man growled. “Drop them.”

Morris didn’t flinch, his voice calm but cold. “You don’t want to do this.”

The man took a step closer, his grip on the knife tightening. “I said, drop them!”

Rhea’s adrenaline surged. Her training with Charles kicked in, every muscle in her body ready to react. She exchanged a quick glance with Morris, who gave a barely perceptible nod.

The man lunged toward them, aiming his knife at Morris. But before he could reach him, Rhea moved. In one swift motion, she sidestepped the attack and delivered a powerful kick to the man’s wrist, sending the knife clattering to the ground.

The man staggered, but Rhea didn’t give him a chance to recover. She grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back, and swept his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, groaning in pain.

Morris stepped forward, his gun drawn. He pointed it at the man’s head, his expression icy.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t end you right now,” Morris said.

The man whimpered, his bravado gone. “I-I didn’t know who you were. Please, I just needed supplies.”

Morris hesitated for a moment before lowering the gun. “You’re lucky my partner is better at sparing lives than I am.”

Rhea released the man and stood, her heart still racing. “Get out of here. And don’t let us see you again.”

The man scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the forest, leaving his knife behind.

Morris turned to Rhea, a faint smile playing on his lips. “You handled that well.”

Rhea shrugged, brushing dirt off her gloves. “I told you—I’ve been through worse.”

By nightfall, they found a small clearing sheltered by towering pines. Morris started a fire while Rhea set up a makeshift camp. The warmth of the flames was a welcome relief against the biting cold.

As they sat by the fire, eating rations in silence, Morris broke the quiet.

“You’ve got skill, Mamba. Today proved that.”

Rhea looked at him, her expression unreadable. “Wasn’t planning on dying today.”

He chuckled softly. “Good. You’ll need that mindset. Tomorrow’s going to be harder.”

Rhea didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the flickering flames. She knew this was just the beginning of the journey, and the challenges ahead would only grow more intense.

But she also knew one thing for certain—she wouldn’t let anything or anyone break her.

As Morris finished his ration, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes drifting to the crackling fire in front of them. He seemed lost in thought for a moment, the weight of his words still lingering in the cold mountain air. Rhea, though tired from their journey, was alert, her curiosity piqued. She had never thought to ask about Morris’s past, but now, she realized just how much she didn’t know.

“Did I ever tell you I’m from Warsaw?” Morris asked, breaking the silence.

Rhea glanced at him, sensing a deeper layer to his words. She nodded, half-smiling. “I kinda figured that out when you spoke perfect Polish,” she teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Morris smiled faintly, but his expression soon darkened. “When the Nazis invaded Poland, my grandmother, Rita, turned in my grandfather, Matvii, to escape a marriage she no longer wanted to be in. She posed herself as an SS follower and fled with her lover, Joachim. They came here, to these mountains, and pitched camp until the war was over. They survived off of animals and vegetables.”

Rhea stayed quiet, her attention fully captured by the story. She could feel the tension in the air, the weight of the history that had shaped Morris into the man he was today. She had never imagined the depths of his past, the family secrets and betrayals that clung to him like the mountain air.

Morris continued, his voice slow and measured. “When the war ended, Joachim admitted to being an SS lieutenant. But he fled to be with my grandmother, and when he asked if it would change anything, my grandmother said no. Joachim was afraid of being prosecuted for war crimes, so they fled to the States. They changed their names, started fresh… and then, my mother, Dominika, and my two uncles were born.”

Rhea leaned forward slightly, her interest growing as Morris’s story unfolded. “Then one day, everything changed,” he added, his tone darkening.

Rhea frowned, sensing that this was where the story took a darker turn. “What happened?” she asked, her voice low, almost a whisper.

Morris stared into the fire, his gaze distant, as though the memories were painful to relive. “Someone discovered Joachim from propaganda. His face—his past—came to light. Poland demanded his extradition for war crimes. My mother and my grandmother went to Warsaw to protest his innocence. They believed Joachim had changed, that the man he had become was far removed from the officer he used to be.”

Rhea could feel the gravity of the situation. His family’s past was catching up with them, and it seemed that the sins of Joachim, and the decisions his grandmother had made, would never be left behind.

“But as the trial progressed,” Morris continued, his voice growing softer, “it became clear that Joachim wasn’t going to escape his past. The Polish government wasn’t going to let him off the hook. And that’s when everything shifted for my grandmother.”

Rhea stayed silent, hanging on his every word.

Morris paused, a bitter smile playing at the corners of his lips. “While they were in Warsaw, my mother met a man—a young goat farmer named Oskar. My grandmother, Rita, kept asking her to come back to the States, to leave the chaos behind. But my mother, she… she couldn’t leave. She fell in love with Oskar. And by the time Joachim was sentenced, it was too late.”

Rhea’s brows furrowed in confusion. “She chose Oskar over her family?”

Morris nodded, the faintest trace of sadness in his eyes. “Yes. She had fallen in love with him. And a year later, they had me.”

The fire crackled in the silence that followed, the weight of the past hanging heavy between them. Rhea could feel the complexity of Morris’s emotions, the long-held resentment, perhaps, for the choices his mother had made.

“And your grandmother…” Rhea began softly, “What came of her after?”

Morris’s lips pressed into a thin line. “My grandmother Rita died shortly after I was born, and my stepfather Joachim—well, he stayed behind in Poland, a ghost in the shadows. But the weight of it all, of the choices they made, lingers in me, in everything I do.”

Rhea could hear the quiet pain in his words, the unresolved tensions of a family torn by history, secrets, and betrayals. She understood, perhaps more than he knew. She had her own scars, her own history that weighed on her every step.

Morris broke his gaze from the fire and turned to Rhea and stared into her eyes, his expression softened by an emotion she hadn’t expected to feel at that moment.

He reached out, his rough hand cupping her face, gently brushing away the dirt and grime from their long journey. There was something intimate in the gesture, something beautifully dangerous, as though he was laying bare a part of himself he rarely showed to anyone. His fingers lingered on her skin, warm against her cold cheek, and Rhea’s breath hitched, her heart inexplicably racing in her chest.

“I know you haven’t made your choice to be my heir,” Morris said quietly, his voice softer than Rhea had ever heard it. “But I want you to know…” He hesitated, as though the words had been trapped inside him for a long time, finally escaping into the silence between them. “I love you, Mamba. With all of my soul.”

The words hit her like a wave, crashing through the defenses she’d built around herself. She hadn’t been prepared for this. Rhea had always known there was something more between them, a bond formed through shared danger, mutual respect, and perhaps even the fleeting moments of vulnerability they’d allowed themselves to glimpse. But love? It felt both comforting and terrifying all at once.

Before she could respond, Morris leaned in, closing the distance between them. His lips met hers in a kiss that was hard and hopeless, filled with the weight of everything he’d just said. It wasn’t like the others—they were not casual, brief, or transactional. This one was deep, as if he was pouring every ounce of his being into it, hoping she would understand the depth of his feelings. The kiss was severe, filled with extremity, and yet, there was a fondness in it that made Rhea’s heart thump erratically against her chest.

When the kiss finally broke, Rhea’s breath came in ragged gasps, her mind spinning. She stared at Morris, her lips still tingling from the kiss. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had kissed her like that—if anyone ever had at all. It wasn’t just passion—it was something more, something binding.

Morris looked at her with love in his eyes, his gaze never wavering. “You’re the only person I would die for on this earth,” he said quietly, his words slicing through the air between them like a katana sword, heavy with meaning. The certainty in his voice made Rhea’s heart falter, as if she could feel the weight of his pledge pressing down on her, making her understand just how far he was willing to go for her.

Rhea’s throat tightened. She had never heard anyone speak like that before. It was one thing to say you would fight for someone, but to say you would die for them—it was a promise, an unspoken bond that tied them together in a way that Rhea didn’t fully understand, but felt nonetheless.

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. She wanted to tell him she didn’t know what to say, that she wasn’t sure if she could return the same feelings. But as she looked into his eyes, she realized she didn’t have to say anything. The vulnerability in his gaze, the truth that lingered in the air, spoke volumes.

Rhea swallowed hard, trying to steady herself. “Morris,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “I’m not sure where I stand. But… I’m here, with you. For now, that’s all I can give.”

Morris nodded, his hand still gently cupping her face. His eyes softened, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “That’s enough, Mamba. For now, that’s enough.”

As the last remnants of whatever daylight was left, flickered behind the peaks of the Carpathian Mountains, they stayed there in silence, the weight of their shared moment settling around them. No words were needed anymore. The bond had already been formed.

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