Page 16 of A Ballad of Blackbirds and Betrayal (Dynamis Security #4)

“Mitchell’s men,” Atticus said, moving to stand beside her as she watched the invasion of her private space. He stood close enough that she could smell his aftershave—sandalwood and something uniquely him—and feel the solid warmth of his presence. “Looking for anything connecting you to Cho or us.”

Sabrina’s breath caught as one of the men held up the photograph of her and her grandmother from her bedside table, examining it before pocketing it. The casual theft of her most precious possession hit harder than she expected, and she clenched her fists to keep her hands from shaking.

“They’re erasing you,” Jade said quietly. “Standard procedure before elimination.”

“Thank you for that comforting assessment,” Sabrina replied, her voice steadier than she felt.

“They won’t find you here,” Atticus said, his voice low enough that only she could hear. Instinctively, he’d shifted his body slightly, as if to shield her from the images on the screen—a protective gesture that seemed automatic rather than calculated. “You’re safe at Dynamis.”

“It’s not my safety I’m concerned about,” she countered, eyes fixed on the screen as the men moved through her home. “It’s the forty-seven people who have no idea they’re about to become case studies in bioweapon effectiveness.”

“Then let’s get to work,” Atticus said, his hand brushing her arm in a gesture so brief she might have imagined it.

The fleeting warmth of his touch lingered on her skin, and she caught herself leaning slightly toward him before catching herself.

“The lab is on sublevel three. State of the art, fully equipped. Cal will send you everything from the flash drive.”

“I’ll need chemical samples from BioGenix to develop an effective counteragent,” Sabrina said, already mentally cataloging what she would need.

“Already on it,” Nate said, checking his weapon with the ease of someone who’d performed the same action thousands of times. The scars on his knuckles stretched as his fingers moved over the gun. “Eden and I can be in and out of their facility by midnight.”

Eden nodded, her dark gaze meeting her husband’s with a wordless communication that spoke of years of partnership. She touched her wedding ring briefly before her hand returned to the weapon at her side.

Atticus nodded his approval. “Take whatever you need, but keep it quiet. Mitchell suspects we’re involved, but he doesn’t know how much we know.”

“So we’re playing dumb while planning to sabotage a terrorist attack,” Eden summarized, her amber eyes hard with determination. “Just like Kyiv.”

The reference clearly meant something to the team, who all tensed slightly at the mention before returning to their tasks.

“What about the buyers?” Max asked, stretching his neck until it cracked audibly.

Jade shot him an irritated look, and he mouthed “sorry” with the sheepish expression of someone who’d received the same admonishment countless times.

“Taking down Mitchell is only half the equation if these people are in the market for bioweapons.”

“We’ll deal with them at the demonstration,” Atticus decided.

He’d stopped rubbing his wedding ring and had resumed his unconscious habit of touching the scar along his jawline—a physical reminder of some past violence that had marked him both inside and out.

“International arms dealers in one location—we’ll provide that evidence to our trusted contacts. Not everyone in government is corrupt.”

“Speaking of agencies,” Cal said, “there’s significant chatter about Cho’s death. Hospital security footage has been mysteriously corrupted, but there are witnesses who remember seeing Dr. Wells at the scene.”

Atticus’s attention shifted momentarily to Sabrina as she studied the tactical display with Eden, her expression focused as she pointed out potential deployment vectors for the bioweapon.

She’d adapted to Dynamis’s operations with remarkable ease, transitioning from trauma surgeon to mission-critical asset within days.

There was an innate competence to her that he respected professionally—and something more that he’d been trying to ignore on a personal level.

Eight years since Jane. Eight years of waking up reaching for someone who wasn’t there, of seeing a ghost in every blond woman on the street, of keeping Jane’s clothes in their closet long after her scent had faded from the fabric. Eight years of living for vengeance rather than living for himself.

Now, watching Sabrina confidently advise operators with decades of field experience, he felt something he’d thought buried with Jane—a pull toward another person that went beyond professional respect or physical attraction. And with that feeling came the crushing weight of guilt.

Was he betraying Jane by noticing the determined set of Sabrina’s jaw? By finding himself cataloging the exact shade of amber in her eyes when she looked up from the tactical display? By imagining, in unguarded moments, what it might be like to build something beyond this mission with her?

He unconsciously touched the wedding band he still wore, the metal warm from years against his skin.

Jane would have told him to move on—had made him promise as much during those final moments in the hospital when they both knew she was slipping away.

“Don’t you dare stop living, Atticus,” she’d whispered through cracked lips.

“Anna needs at least one parent who remembers how.”

He hadn’t been able to keep that promise.

Between ensuring Anna’s recovery and hunting Mitchell, there had been no room for anything else.

Or perhaps that was the excuse he’d given himself, because living—truly living—meant opening himself to loss again.

And he wasn’t sure he could survive that a second time.

Sabrina looked up suddenly, catching him watching her. Instead of the awkwardness he expected, she held his gaze steadily, as if sensing the conflict within him. For a moment, they remained like that, something unspoken passing between them before she returned to the mission planning.

Atticus pulled his focus back to the operation at hand. Tomorrow they would confront Mitchell’s operation directly. By this time the next day, they could all be dead—or they could have finally brought Jane’s murderer to justice. Either way, something would end.

And something, perhaps, would begin.

“Handle it,” Atticus directed to Cal, his tone leaving no room for discussion.

“Already on it,” Cal replied, fingers resuming their dance across the keyboard.

The constant, rhythmic clicking provided an odd sort of comfort in the midst of chaos—the sound of someone competent working at what they did best. “Dr. Wells is officially in Phoenix caring for her mother who had a stroke. I’ve created a digital trail complete with hotel reservations, meal deliveries, and even a very nice online review of a restaurant she definitely didn’t eat at last night. ”

Sabrina blinked. “That’s…disturbing.” She found herself reflexively checking her phone, half expecting to find unfamiliar texts and photos documenting a trip she’d never taken.

“Yet useful,” Eden pointed out, the slight curve of her lips revealing a hint of the woman beneath the operative’s demeanor. A tiny scar at the corner of her mouth became more pronounced when she smiled—the physical remnant of some past violence that hadn’t diminished her capacity for humor.

“Privacy is largely an illusion in the digital age,” Cal explained without looking up from his screens.

He paused to take a long drink from his energy drink, the slight tremor in his hands betraying how long he’d been operating on caffeine and adrenaline.

“Most people just don’t have someone like me manipulating their illusion. ”

Atticus checked his watch, a Rolex with a scratch across the face that he’d obviously never bothered to repair. “We reconvene at 0800 tomorrow. Nate, Eden—you move at 2300 hours. The rest of you know your assignments.”

The team dispersed, leaving Sabrina standing in the middle of the command center, suddenly aware of how completely her life had changed in a matter of hours.

Jade appeared at her elbow. “I’ll show you to the lab. You’ll want to get started before Nate and Eden return with the samples.”

* * *

Several hours later and more than a thousand miles away, Senator Warren Mitchell sat in his private office in the Russell Senate Building.

He projected exactly the image he’d cultivated over three terms—tasteful power, old-money refinement, the gravitas of a statesman who shaped America’s future.

Afternoon sunlight spilled through tall windows, illuminating the rich mahogany of his desk and the carefully arranged photographs of Mitchell with three different presidents.

What the office did not reveal was the man who sat behind the antique desk, his manicured fingers idly turning a Montblanc pen as he listened to the voice on his secure line.

“Are you absolutely certain?” Mitchell’s voice remained perfectly modulated despite the rage building inside him.

For over thirty years in politics, he’d mastered the art of never revealing his true emotions.

That discipline had served him well in board rooms, on the Senate floor, and in the shadowy transactions that had built his true power base.

“Yes, sir,” his security chief confirmed. “Our surveillance team captured the extraction. Dr. Wells was removed from the cafe by Dynamis operatives approximately nine minutes after Cho’s collapse.”

Mitchell set the pen down with deliberate care. “And the visual confirmation?”

“Facial recognition is 98.7 percent positive. We caught a partial of him in a vehicle. Cameron himself was on site. The woman was transferred to an unmarked vehicle and satellite shows she was taken directly to their headquarters. She’s there now.”