Page 8

Story: Trusting Grace

He turned toward the hall, pivoting, his weapon already on target.
“Still efficient, Rahim.”
Lynne Caspari stood in the doorway, hands folded loosely, eyes scanning the scene with detached interest. She looked more like a diplomat than the nightmare she actually was.
Her expression was unreadable. The kind of face shaped by decades of sending people to do unspeakable things in unspeakable places.
Nash didn’t lower the weapon. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked.
Caspari stepped forward, unbothered by the gun pointed center-mass. “I need your help.”
"You have a strange way of showing it."
She glanced down at the two men breathing hard on his floor. One had a bloody lip. The other was trying to slow his breathing.
"Can I?—"
"No," Nash cut in. "Talk. Or get the hell off my property."
Caspari sighed. “You flagged something last week. A dirty vendor chain.”
He did his job like he always had, quiet, clean, and a step ahead. Specialized contractor. Field intelligence and security audits. Find the gaps before they split wide open. Risk assessments on high-threat contractors. Physical security sweeps. Reading procurement logs like a battlefield map, where the money went, where the danger lived, and which son of a bitch was trying to bury it. He was good enough that they paid him through the nose to smell trouble before it got someone killed. Saved companies millions. Sometimes saved lives too.
He barked a bitter laugh. “I flagged a goddamn headache. Corporate shell vendors, rigged invoices, contractor games. I went through the proper channels. How did you get a hold of it?”
"That's not important," she said.
"Fucking CIA, and fuck you, Lynne."
“No, thanks. I like my guys pliant.”
Nash scoffed, the sound harsh, scraping her nerves.
Caspari’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a pattern buried inside OrdoTech. Ghost code. Disappearing money. Vendor shell games tied to a series of black-flag incidents no one was supposed to know about.” She paused. Measured. “One of our own died on the last one.” He didn’t blink. "You know about losing people, Nash."
That landed like a hook to the ribs. He knew the game. She’d dangled just enough truth to gut him and just enough guilt to make sure he grabbed the hook anyway. He closed his eyes, just for a second. The ache came quick, the memory sharper than it should have been.
Kento’s grin. The nickname they gave him. Superman. Gone. Just like the rest.
What she was proposing was illegal. The CIA was prohibited from operating on US soil under the National Security Act. His voice dropped. “Not interested. Find someone else.”
“What? You can’t?—”
“Refuse?” he said. “Last time I checked, I fought for truth, justice, and the American way.” The words cut like glass. He flinched inwardly. The pain flared again. Faces. Names. The click of comms just before everything went black.
Caspari’s jaw tightened. “I’m good friends with the owner of Black Kite,” she said.
His mouth kicked up in a sly half-grin. “You try to leverage me, Lynne, you better remember who the hell I am.” His voice was quieter now, more dangerous. “I could make three phone calls tomorrow and have three new jobs. If that’s all you’ve got?—”
“This could give you answers,” she said.
He went still. “What are you talking about?”
She stepped in. “Your memory gaps. The brothers you lost. There could be a trail still buried in the data, drone telemetry, wiped comm logs, fragmented black-box signals. You know how these ops work. Nothing gets wiped completely. If there’s a thread, it can be found.”
He stared at her, jaw tight. "You tried the stick," he said. "Now the carrot."
Caspari’s voice lowered, deliberate. "There may even be a visual log of what happened, Nash." His pulse kicked hard. He masked it, but she saw it anyway.