Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 8

The Long Game.

Sage

*Morning, girlfriend!” Naomi chirped as she slid a steaming cup of coffee toward me across the cracked countertop. She was far too chipper for how little sleep we’d gotten.

“Morning. I mumbled, fingers curling around the mug like it might anchor me. I didn’t bother with pleasantries. “I’ve got a job out of

town.

“Damn.” She leaned back against the sink, brow quirking. “How long are you gone for?”

She didn’t ask where. Or who, Smart. She knew better. We might wear the same scars and answer to the same man, but we still had our lines, our rules. Job details weren’t shared unless they needed to be. Unless you didn’t think you were coming back. We were friends and we were something messier. Trauma- tied. Blood-bound. The kind of bond you forge in places where childhood is traded for survival and screams echo down stone corridors. Naomi was twelve when she arrived. Practically an elder compared to most of the kids Yakov funneled through his little boot camp of horrors. Her parents sold her to clear a debt, filthy bastards couldn’t pay their way out of a poker game and figured their daughter was fair currency. She never talks about the night they handed her over, but I know the story. Everyone does. First day in, she stabbed Yakov through the hand with a fucking letter opener and made it all the way to the compound gate before they dragged her back. Screaming, kicking, bleeding. She earned her place after that. Most girls would’ve been dead by morning. But Yakov? He liked fighters. He kept her. Trained her. Broke her just enough to bend. And me? I don’t even remember where I came from. No name, no past. Just bruises and blurred faces. Just orders and pain. I think I was five the first time they told me to kill. They brought in a man with a bag on his head, shoved a knife in my hand and said “kill, or be killed.” I cried the first time I did. I know I stopped crying after that…and when Nai finally came in, she gave me a name. Sage, like the colour of my eyes. Yakov never bothered, he was happy with me just being another number, another finally tuned weapon. All I ever knew was this: I was his property. And property didn’t ask questions. Property didn’t hesitate. You did what Yakov said, when he said it, or you died. Easy math.

Naomi sipped her coffee and watched me over the rim, eyes too sharp to be fooled by my quiet. “You packing heavy or light?”

“Medium,” I replied. Which told her enough.

“Need backup?”

“No. Just clean-up.”

She gave a slow nod, accepting it like gospel. “Well, don’t die, yeah?”

I cracked the barest smile. “Not planning on it.”

She smirked. “Planning doesn’t stop bullets.”

I shrugged and finished my coffee. “Neither does hiding. And I’m not built for hiding.”

No one made it this far by being soft. Least of all us. I grabbed my bags, strapped them down to my bike, chucked on my helmet, and kicked it into gear. My next target was over eight hours away, deep in the mountains near a border town too small for maps and too proud for questions. One road in, two dirt trails out, and a whole lot of trees in between. Perfect for burying things…secrets, bodies, or both. Yakov’s file had been thin. Just enough to do the job. A name: Tobias Creed. Former merc. Ex-special forces, dishonorably discharged. Worked black-market arms deals across three continents before disappearing off-grid two years ago. He resurfaced six weeks ago in a cabin too close to a weapons drop Yakov had been planning. Coincidence? Maybe. But Yakov didn’t believe in coincidence, and neither did I. I knew the type. Paranoid. Isolated. Dangerous. A man like that didn’t stay hidden without traps, cameras, and fallback plans. He was the kind of guy who shaved with a knife and slept with a gun under his pillow. This wouldn’t be a straight walk-up-and-pop job. It’d take finesse. Patience. A little bit of art. I stopped at a safe house an hour out of the city, one of ours, tucked behind a gas station with shitty pumps and a diner that smelled like burnt bacon and spilled dreams. I swapped my plates, dumped my burner phone, and pulled out the black duffel from the false floor under the bed. Inside: two suppressed handguns, a scoped rifle, C4 (because you never know), a full surveillance kit, night vision, and a dossier I’d started filling in myself. Every job got one. A ritual. A little control in a life where control was a myth. I pinned a blurry satellite image of the cabin to the wall, circled likely approach points, noted escape routes. There was an old fire tower on the ridge, a perfect vantage point. I’d hike in on foot, cache supplies, spend two days watching. Find his rhythm. Learn the edges of his world before I broke into it. This was the kind of work I lived for. The in-between. The quiet before the cut. Yakov wanted Tobias Creed gone, sure, and I would do it. Happily. The job paid well, and refusing it wasn’t an option if I wanted to keep breathing. But the job I’d spent years preparing for, the one that truly mattered, wasn’t in the folder Ari handed me each week. It wasn’t about Tobias or any of the other names I crossed off like they were just lists at the grocery store. No. The real mark was Yakov himself. I’d been playing the long game for years. Training. Surviving. Waiting. I’d earned every inch of ground I stood on. Fought tooth and nail to rise high enough in Yakov’s ranks to get out of the compound. The first time he let me leave was for a small job in the city, some banker with loose lips and bad habits. I made it look clean. Professional. Efficient. And when I came back without complaint, without hesitation, I got more. Eventually, I was “trusted” enough to live off-site. If you could call it living. A cramped apartment with peeling wallpaper, mold in the corners, and a busted radiator. Still, it was freedom, or something close to it. But even then, I wasn’t really free. They checked in. Regularly. A man named Erik from the compound showed up unannounced at least once a week, always under the

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The Long Game.

guise of “support.” Code for: we’re watching you. I couldn’t even sleep without imagining a bug under my mattress or a camera behind the vent. But I played the part. The perfect soldier. The loyal ghost. I killed when told, stayed silent when ordered, and never asked for more than I was given. Because I knew, i

knew, that one day, Yakoy would stop watching his back and that’s when I’d strike.

The Rat and The Ghost.

Conner

Paranoia wasn’t new to me. It came with the job, like blood on knuckles or lies in the sheets. But tonight? Tonight it was more than a gut feeling. It was a

scream in my bones.

‘Lock the doors, I told Nico as he stepped inside. “No one in. No one out.”

He raised a brow. “What’re we hunting?”

“Bugs. Cameras. Mics. Anything that shouldn’t be here.”

To his credit, he didn’t ask questions. Just pulled his laptop from the messenger bag, then a black pouch filled with scanners, lenses, tools I couldn’t name but knew were expensive as hell. We started in the living room. I moved furniture, lifted rugs, unscrewed vents while Nico swept with one of his handheld detectors. The thing chirped, whined, then glowed red.

“Here,” he said, crouching behind the bar cabinet. His gloved fingers pulled back a wooden panel, revealing a pin-sized camera nestled in the wall trim, wired into the electrical system.

“Hardwired,” he muttered. “Clean job. Someone’s been watching you in real time.”

“Can you trace it?”

“Give me twenty minutes.”

We found a second mic in the base of a floor lamp. Another in the vent above the stairs. Nico cursed under his breath when we reached my office and found a micro-transmitter inside the damn smoke detector.

“This one’s recent,” he said. “Battery’s full. Maybe placed within the week.”

By the end of the search, we’d uncovered six separate surveillance devices, three cameras, three audio bugs.

I poured two fingers of whiskey, slid a glass across the table to him. He ignored it, already coding, running signal intercepts and backtraces through his

system.

Thirty minutes later, he leaned back, face pale under the blue light of his screen.

“What?” I asked.

“They’re not all from the same source.”

I froze. “Say that again.”

Nico tapped the screen, pulling up two sets of data strings. “Different encryptions. Different pings. One’s bouncing through offshore proxies, old-school cloak and dagger shit, professional. Could be internal. But the other?” He clicked over. “Different signature. Amateur, but smart. Like someone piggybacking your security blind spots.”

“Meaning?”

“Someone with access… and someone watching them watch you.”

I ran a hand down my face. “So one’s the rat.”

He nodded. “And the other?”

I stared at the screen. The second trace was odd, deliberate but messy. Like someone leaving a trail they wanted me to follow. My stomach turned. It felt like

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