Page 5 of A Ballad of Blackbirds and Betrayal (Dynamis Security #4)

Senator Warren Mitchell had arrived, his silver hair gleaming under the chandelier lights, his wife elegant in crimson at his side.

Sabrina had never met the senator in person, though his image was familiar enough from news coverage.

Tall and distinguished, with the confident bearing of someone accustomed to wielding power, Mitchell moved through the crowd like royalty accepting tribute, smiling and shaking hands as he progressed.

Beside her, Atticus Cameron went utterly still.

Had she not been standing so close, she might have missed the subtle shift in his demeanor—the slight tensing of his jaw, the almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes.

But standing where she was, Sabrina felt the change like a drop in atmospheric pressure before a storm.

Pure, undiluted hatred radiated from him in waves, though his expression remained impassive. It lasted only seconds before he mastered it, but it was enough to send a chill down Sabrina’s spine.

“Mr. Cameron—” she began.

“We need to talk,” he said, his voice tightly controlled. “Not here.”

Mitchell was making his way deeper into the room, greeting hospital board members with practiced charm. He hadn’t noticed them yet, but would soon if they remained where they were.

As if sensing her hesitation, Cameron leaned closer. “You’ve been asking dangerous questions, Dr. Wells. The kind that get people killed. I can help you find answers, but not if you’re dead.”

The directness of his statement should have seemed melodramatic, but something in his eyes—something cold and knowing—told Sabrina he wasn’t exaggerating.

“The east terrace,” she said, making a decision. “Five minutes.”

He nodded almost imperceptibly and turned away, moving smoothly through the crowd in the opposite direction from Mitchell. Sabrina watched him go, wondering if she’d just made a terrible mistake.

She circulated for exactly four minutes, making brief, meaningless conversation with donors while her mind raced through possibilities.

Cameron knew things he shouldn’t know—about her research, about the connections she’d painstakingly uncovered.

Either he was part of what she was investigating, or he was conducting his own parallel inquiry.

Neither option was particularly reassuring.

Excusing herself, she slipped through the French doors onto the east terrace. The night air hit her like a blessing after the stifling heat of the crowded ballroom, the sounds of the gala muffled by thick glass. Dallas sprawled below, a tapestry of lights against the velvet darkness.

“Careful.” Cameron’s voice came from the shadows to her right. “Stay where you can be seen from inside. Mitchell has men watching you.”

Sabrina fought the instinct to turn toward his voice, instead moving to the stone balustrade as if admiring the view. “You seem to know a lot about Senator Mitchell.”

“More than most.” He moved to stand beside her, maintaining a proper distance that would appear conversational to anyone observing from inside. “And not nearly enough.”

“Why are you here, Mr. Cameron? What’s your interest in my research?”

“Mitchell is conducting illegal bioweapon research through BioGenix,” he said without preamble.

“Your patients were collateral damage—lab workers exposed during testing. The symptoms you documented match a weaponized toxin designed to mimic a hemorrhagic fever but leave no trace in conventional toxicology screens.”

Sabrina’s breath caught. It was the confirmation she’d been seeking for months, delivered matter-of-factly by a stranger at a charity gala.

“How do you know this?” she demanded.

“Because my team has been tracking Mitchell’s operations for years,” he said. “We have the financial trails, communication intercepts, shell company structures. What we didn’t have until recently was proof of the bioweapon’s existence. Your patients provided that proof.”

“And what does your team plan to do with this information?” She kept her voice steady, professional, though her heart hammered against her ribs.

“Stop him. Before he can sell the weapon to the highest bidder.” Cameron’s hands rested on the balustrade, his knuckles white with suppressed tension. “But we need your expertise to understand exactly what we’re dealing with.”

Sabrina laughed, a short, sharp sound without humor. “My expertise? I’m a trauma surgeon, not a bioweapons specialist. I’ve been stumbling around in the dark for months trying to make sense of what I was seeing.”

“You’re the only person who’s treated victims of this weapon and documented the progression,” he countered. “That makes you the world’s foremost expert, whether you want the title or not.”

She shook her head, processing the implications. “Even if what you’re saying is true, why would I trust you? I don’t know you. I don’t know what Dynamis Security really does. For all I know, you’re competing for the same bioweapon.”

“A fair point,” he acknowledged. “But consider this—if I wanted to silence you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

The matter-of-fact statement sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the night air.

“Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“No. But this might.” He reached slowly into his jacket, telegraphing the movement to avoid alarming her, and withdrew an encrypted thumb drive. “Everything we have on Mitchell and BioGenix. Take it, verify it independently. When you’re ready to talk, call the number encoded in the files.”

She hesitated, then took the drive, concealing it in her clutch purse.

“Why are you really doing this, Mr. Cameron? Private security contractors don’t typically crusade against corrupt politicians unless there’s profit involved.”

Something flashed in his eyes—a glimpse of raw emotion quickly suppressed. “Let’s just say Mitchell and I have unfinished business.”

Before she could press further, the French doors opened, spilling light and noise onto the terrace. A young woman in hospital administration uniform stepped out.

“Dr. Wells? You’re needed inside. The auction is about to begin.”

“Thank you, I’ll be right there,” Sabrina replied, grateful that the shadows concealed her face until she could compose her expression. She turned back to Atticus. “I should go.”

He nodded. “Be careful, Dr. Wells. Mitchell doesn’t leave loose ends.”

“What about you?” she asked, suddenly concerned about being seen with him.

“I’ll make my exit another way.” His mouth quirked in what might have been a genuine smile. “Not my first covert departure.”

Something told her that was true. As she turned to go, his hand caught hers briefly.

“Sabrina,” he said, using her first name for the first time, his voice dropping to a register that seemed to resonate directly with her nervous system. “Trust your instincts. They’ve kept you alive this long.”

Then he was gone, melting into the darkness at the edge of the terrace with a silence that should have been impossible for a man his size.

Sabrina stepped back into the gala, the thumb drive a heavy presence in her purse, Cameron’s warning echoing in her mind. Across the room, Senator Mitchell was laughing at something Richard Maitland had said, the picture of genial charm and respectability.

Their eyes met for the briefest moment, and Mitchell nodded politely in her direction, his politician’s smile never wavering. Yet something in that gaze—a coldness, a calculation—made her skin crawl.

Trust your instincts, Cameron had said.

Her instincts were screaming.