Page 139

My tirade lands like a slap. The lead guy—Carson, sharp but too soft for the real world—narrows his eyes but ignores my insult and skips right into their next point of concern. “Let’s talk about Maxine Andrade, shall we? You’re aware that your relationship with Andrade has compromised every piece of intelligence gathered from Operation Bird’s Nest?”
I laugh. Cold. Merciless. “Compromised? I dismantled the Aviary.”
“You disrupted an active investigation.”
“Iendedit.”
“By going rogue.”
“No,” I snarl, “by doing your fucking job when no one else would. You sat on your hands while girls were trafficked out of shipping containers in broad daylight. While politicians hosted auctions in palaces. While the Bureau protected names you were too scared to whisper. Politics.”
I slam the folder in front of me—the one I walked in with. My little gift.
Carson opens it. Sees the photos. The bank transfers. The offshore accounts. The security footage of a Senator’s son slapping a screaming girl while she bleeds through her dress.
He stiffens. Dorsey’s mini-me turns green. Weller justexhales through his nose, slow. He already knew. Bastard’s probably been playing both sides.
“I’ve got ten more files like that,” I say. “All originals. All authenticated. And I’ve made sure copies go public if anything happens to me. I have enough ammunition to blow this whole fucking investigation sky high.”
Carson looks up, his voice quieter now. “This is blackmail. You’re really going to play this card? Against the bureau?”
“This is leverage,” I correct. “The only language you suits understand.”
Silence. Beautiful, trembling silence. Then I lean in. Real close. Let them see the monster they created. Let them smell the fire I walked through.
“You’re going to drop the charges against me. You’re going to clear my record. And you’re going to put me in a position to finish this—quietly—before the media picks it up and eats you alive.”
“And in return?” Carson says carefully.
“I hand over the final list. The big fish. The ones with names so heavy they’ll sink your careers if they go public before you make the arrests.”
“And the girl?”
I smile, slow and dangerous. “You leave her the fuck out of it.”
He closes the folder. Nods once. But the air in the room drops substantially. It always does when the wolves realize they’re sitting across from someone hungrier than themselves.
“Welcome back, Agent North,” Weller says.
“No,” I say, standing, uncurling my clenched fists. “I’m not your agent anymore.”
57
SAXON
The meeting is set for 2:00 a.m. Because of course it is. Monsters do their best work in the dark, and I’ve learned to speak their language fluently.
The warehouse is on the edge of a shipping yard just outside the city. There are no cameras and no patrols; no-one dares venture out this way unless they have shady business to conduct. Which makes it the perfect place for this meeting.
I park two blocks out. I have just enough C4 in a duffel bag slung over my shoulder to make a point if things go south.
Spoiler alert: they always go south with Kiernan.
I find him inside, waiting like he always does—smug, cocky, leaning back like he’s in control, although I know he’s anything but. The muscle he’s brought with him tells me he’s more than concerned about the meeting.
We go back years, me and him. Kiernan was my best confidential informant during the early Aviary takedowns. Smart. Quick. Slippery. But somewhere along the way, he got too comfortable, too greedy. Started playing both sides.
And now, standing there with two strangers flanking him—muscle I didn’t approve—he’s already telling me everything I need to know.