Page 10 of A Ballad of Blackbirds and Betrayal (Dynamis Security #4)

Chapter Six

The executive suite at Dynamis headquarters was a fortress within a fortress.

Three floors above Atticus’s office, the space had originally served as a secure recovery location for agents returning from difficult missions.

Over the years, it had evolved into Atticus’s private domain when work demanded he stay close.

Sabrina paused at the threshold. This wasn’t just another room in the complex; this was personal territory. Crossing it felt significant in ways she wasn’t prepared to analyze.

“The security is better here than anywhere else,” Atticus said, mistaking her hesitation for concern. “Mitchell’s reach is extensive, but not even he can penetrate this building.”

The suite surprised her—not with stark functionality, but with warmth.

Rich wood floors, comfortable leather furniture, and carefully chosen artwork created an atmosphere more home than office.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Dallas as twilight descended, city lights blinking on like earthbound stars.

“The kitchen’s stocked,” Atticus said, setting down their files. “I’ll have additional medical journals sent up if you need them.”

“This should be enough to start,” Sabrina replied, focusing on the task rather than the space’s unexpected intimacy. “I need to cross-reference the victims’ blood work with the BioGenix compounds.”

She began arranging her files on the dining table when a map on the far wall caught her attention—BioGenix facilities pinned to a corkboard.

“How long have you had that?” she asked, moving closer.

Atticus joined her. “Since the day after I met you at the gala. I’ve been tracking shipments in and out of their main facility.” His voice dropped. “Three senior researchers have disappeared in the past two weeks. All from their most secure lab division. No police reports filed.”

“He’s cleaning house,” Sabrina murmured, studying the red pins marking each location. “Eliminating anyone with direct knowledge of the bioweapon program.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

He stood close enough that she felt his presence—the subtle warmth radiating from him, the scent of cedar and clean cotton with something uniquely him beneath.

“This one,” she said, pointing to a facility on Dallas’s outskirts, “received three unmarked shipments last week according to our cardiac research fellow. Dr. Roberts sits on the joint oversight committee that reviews incoming research materials for clinical trials.”

Atticus’s eyes narrowed. “We haven’t detected those. What kind of shipments?”

“Refrigerated containers requiring level-four biohazard protocols. Logged as proprietary research materials. Roberts said they bypassed standard inspection on Mitchell’s direct authorization.”

“Mitchell’s accelerating his timeline,” Atticus said, jaw tightening as he added another pin. “The gala breach rattled him more than we thought.”

For the next several hours, they worked in tandem, her medical knowledge complementing his intelligence gathering with unexpected synchronicity.

Sabrina lost herself in cellular degradation patterns across the four victims, seeking the thread that might lead to a treatment.

Atticus analyzed communications and financial records, building the case against Mitchell one piece of evidence at a time.

Eventually, Sabrina noticed darkness had fallen.

Her life outside Dynamis seemed increasingly distant—the scheduled surgeries, research papers, the Highland Park townhouse she rarely saw in daylight.

The relentless pace she’d maintained for years now appeared less like dedication and more like avoidance.

She remembered her colleague Sarah asking what she did for fun. Sabrina had stared blankly before mumbling something about medical journals. Sarah’s pitying look had lingered in her memory.

It wasn’t simple workaholism. After losing four patients despite everything she’d done during her military service, Sabrina had retreated into trauma surgery’s controlled environment.

There, protocols were clear, hierarchy established, boundaries defined.

She’d excelled within that structure, becoming one of Dallas Memorial’s most respected surgeons.

Excellence had exacted its price: no serious relationships, friendships limited to occasional drinks with colleagues, family interactions reduced to obligatory holiday calls with her critical father. Her mother had stopped trying to introduce her to “nice doctors” years ago.

Watching Atticus across the table, a man who’d similarly shaped his life around a singular mission, Sabrina recognized her own isolation reflected back. What remained if she stripped away the surgeon’s mask and professional competence? The question unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

Her stomach growled, interrupting her thoughts. They’d barely touched the Thai food Atticus had ordered, both consumed by their work. Even basic self-care often fell victim to her focus.

Her phone buzzed. “It’s from Dr. Cho,” she said, frowning at the screen. “At nearly one in the morning.”

She showed Atticus the message: Dr. Wells, I owe you an apology.

The legal response was not my decision. I’m in over my head and need your expertise.

Another researcher disappeared yesterday—Martinez from the containment team.

I have information about the next test phase and formulation details you’ll need for treatment protocols.

Please meet me. Crimson Café, 2 p.m. tomorrow.

Atticus moved closer, brow furrowed. “Late night texts from someone who threatened legal action against you weeks ago. It could be a trap.”

“Or she’s genuinely terrified,” Sabrina countered.

“The timing makes it credible—she’s reaching out when she thinks she won’t be monitored.

The message doesn’t sound like Mitchell’s legal team crafted it.

” She considered the implications. “If researchers are disappearing as you’ve documented, she could fear she’s next.

Meeting at Crimson Café is smart—public, away from the hospital where I might be recognized despite my supposed absence.

“Mitchell doesn’t know I’ve connected with you and Dynamis. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just a nosy doctor in Phoenix with my mother.”

“A nosy doctor who’s already stepped on his toes,” Atticus corrected. “Mitchell doesn’t leave loose ends. The fact that you’re still breathing means he doesn’t consider you a serious threat yet—but that could change the moment you meet with Cho.”

Sabrina’s chin lifted in stubborn determination. “I can’t ignore this. She might know critical details about the deployment timeline.”

Atticus had long since removed his jacket and tie, his shirt open at the collar with sleeves rolled to reveal corded forearms marked with occasional scars.

Stubble shadowed his jaw, and his dark hair was slightly disheveled where he’d run his hands through it, giving him a rumpled quality that softened his features without diminishing their intensity.

“We do it together, or not at all,” he said, his voice allowing no argument.

“I’m the doctor. She contacted me, not you.”

“And I’m the one who’s spent eight years dealing with people like Mitchell,” he countered. “Trust me on this. We set the terms—not Cho, and certainly not Mitchell if he’s pulling her strings.”

The firmness in his tone should have irritated her. Instead, she found herself responding to the underlying concern. He wasn’t questioning her competence; he was drawing on experience she lacked.

“Fine,” she conceded. “But we do it tomorrow. If she really knows something about the next phase, we can’t wait.”

Atticus nodded, pulling out his phone. “I’ll have Cal set up surveillance and Jade in position as backup.”

While he made arrangements, Sabrina returned to the medical reports, but concentration proved elusive. Her mind kept circling back to the tension between them, an awareness that had nothing to do with the case and everything to do with the man whose space she’d entered.

“Cal’s arranged a secure meeting point,” Atticus said, rejoining her. “Crimson Café at 2 p.m. Jade will be in position thirty minutes prior.”

Sabrina nodded, turning a page in her medical journal. The words blurred, fatigue finally catching up after days of minimal sleep.

“You should rest,” Atticus said, his voice rougher than before. “There’s a guest room through that door.”

“I’m close to something,” she replied, gesturing to the reports. “The neural tissue degradation follows a distinct pattern across all victims, but the progression rate varies. If I can isolate the variable…”

Her voice trailed off as she reached for another file and felt the room tilt. Despite their earlier meal, neither had eaten properly, and exhaustion was taking its toll.

Atticus was beside her instantly, steadying her with a touch that burned against her skin.

“Medical journals also recommend food and sleep for the doctors who read them,” he said, humor not masking his concern.

She meant to smile, to brush it off professionally, but his proximity overwhelmed her senses. Heat radiated from him, and she realized how long it had been since she’d been this close to anyone who made her pulse quicken for reasons unrelated to trauma.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, but the words lacked conviction.

His hand remained at her elbow, thumb tracing small circles against her blouse. The simple touch shouldn’t have affected her so strongly, but her skin tingled beneath the fabric as if his fingers left invisible marks.

“When was the last time you slept more than a few hours?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to deflect, then realized there was no point lying to someone who’d made a career of reading people. “The night before I met you,” she admitted.

“Same,” he said with a ghost of a smile that transformed his face, softening the hard edges and revealing glimpses of the man he might have been before grief carved its mark.