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Ma’am didn’t blink. “Then you know why he’s going to be your threat meter and your shield.” A pause. Dry as gunpowder. “Some very nice muscle, Grace.”
Grace didn’t answer. Nice or not, nowadays she preferred to work alone. But this woman was offering her something she wanted very badly. She could deal with some tech guy. But she wasn’t going to show her eagerness. Her dad told her in the fine art of negotiation, don’t give anything away. Cards played close to the vest were aces up her sleeve.
The woman was all steel and espionage and didn’t fill the silence.
Grace kept her face still. “You’re in violation of your directive by infiltrating an NCIS agent’s files.”
Ma’am didn’t deny it. “You want to report it? Be my guest. But it won’t change what you found. Or the fact that no one else flagged it. You and I both know this isn’t noise. It’s a pattern. I’m the only one offering you the means to follow it.”
Grace held her gaze. “You’re not offering. You’re cornering.” Ma’am’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Grace leaned forward, quiet but deliberate. “If I do this, you get out of our systems. You scrub whatever hook you’ve left in my machine. Or I go to the director right now and burn us both.” Ma’am stilled. “I haven’t got anything to lose,” Grace continued. “But you do. You’d lose the one person on this planet who can get you what you want.” A long beat passed. Grace’s voice lowered. “I don’t betray the people I work with, Ma’am. That should mean something to you, since you don’t give up on the people you lost.”
Ma’am’s expression didn’t change. But something in her eyes flickered. Then she gave a short nod. Crisp. Controlled.
“Fair enough,” she said. “You’re in. Your terms. But you go quiet. No trace. No notes. No updates to your supervisor. You chase the thread, and when you’re done, we talk again.” Outside, the wind stirred. Inside, the air held steady. “I didn’t think you’d say no.”
Grace also didn’t like being predictable. But this was too important to her. Buried beneath all the sanitized language, wiped logs, and dead-end flags was the thing Grace hadn’t stopped chasing since the tribunal.
The truth.
The breach that shattered her career had never been just a malfunction. Somewhere, in the ghost noise no one else bothered to hear, proof still existed. Maybe, just maybe, this was her way back in.
Not to clear her name. That part was already gone. But to get justice for the men and women who had been murdered in the name of progress.
“When do I leave?” Her mind moved to packing and a little hacking.
“Tomorrow.”
Grace closed the file. Slid it back across the table. “We go in as auditors. With Mr. Rahim already an employee of Black Kite, it’s the perfect cover. No one will even bat an eye. It’s routine, easy, believable. Get me listed as one of their contract employees. Fast. Will that be a problem?”
Ma'am smiled faintly. "Not for me. You do think fast on your feet." She offered her hand across the table.
Grace didn't hesitate. She shook it once, hard, dry. No smiles. No second chances.
They had a deal.
Trust was another story. These people lied for a living, and she would know how to skew anything to make it sound beneficial.
Ma’am gave the faintest nod.
Grace rose and turned to the door, taking the necessary steps. Then paused, one hand on the knob.
“Oh, and Ma’am?”
She lifted her eyes. “Book me into first class.” With that, she walked out.
* * *
The zipper stuck halfway.
Grace didn’t force it. She drew in a slow breath, found the tension in the teeth, and guided it back an inch before easing it forward again. The bag gave in with a soft click of surrender.
She moved through the apartment in silence, steps steady over slate floors. The space was untouched. White walls. A gray rug squared to the furniture. Surfaces bare but for a lamp and a charging dock. No pictures. No art. No souvenirs from places she didn’t visit anymore. The bookshelf held exactly three rows of reference manuals, organized not by subject or author, but by height.
The last time someone brought her a gift, she thanked them. Then placed it in a drawer and never opened it again.
In the bathroom, she washed her hands slowly. Fingers to palms. Thumb to knuckle. Then straightened the towel so the hem aligned perfectly with the sink. Her reflection looked calm. Controlled. That was the truth she lived by. She didn’t need comfort. She needed order. Comfort had weight. Order had edges.
She returned to the bedroom and resumed packing. Everything had a place. Base layers on the left. Tactical wear folded tightly on the right. The boots went in last, soles down, heels aligned.