Page 6 of A Ballad of Blackbirds and Betrayal (Dynamis Security #4)
Chapter Three
Dynamis Security’s headquarters rose like a gleaming fortress against the Dallas skyline. Sabrina approached the entrance, each measured step at odds with her racing pulse. The thumb drive Atticus had given her last night weighed in her purse like a live grenade.
The security screening rivaled anything she’d experienced at military installations.
Biometric scanners, retinal verification, and guards who assessed her with the calculating precision of professionals who quantified threat levels as automatically as breathing.
Sabrina met their scrutiny with the composure she’d perfected in emergency rooms where split-second decisions determined who lived and died.
She’d dressed strategically—a charcoal pantsuit over a burnished copper blouse, her dark hair secured at her nape, makeup minimal but deliberate. The professional armor of a woman who understood how easily men in power underestimated her.
Atticus waited in the lobby, his dark suit emphasizing broad shoulders and lean strength. The space seemed to reorganize itself around him, his quiet authority drawing glances from everyone nearby—including her own.
“Dr. Wells.” His voice carried that controlled power she’d recognized instantly at the gala. “Thank you for coming.”
“Your evidence was compelling,” she replied, extending her hand.
His grip was warm, firm, calloused in ways that contradicted his executive appearance. When their eyes met, that strange current passed between them again—a recognition that made her uncomfortably aware of him as something more than a temporary ally.
“You reviewed everything?” he asked, guiding her toward the elevator, his touch light at her elbow.
“Every file,” she confirmed as the doors closed, suddenly conscious of the confined space. “I assume your team has vetted me thoroughly enough to know I have clearance for this conversation.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
“Former Navy lieutenant, medical division. Honorable discharge after six years, including two deployments to conflict zones. Top of your class at Johns Hopkins. Board certified in trauma surgery with specializations in emergency medicine and disaster response.” He met her gaze directly. “Yes, Dr. Wells, we’ve vetted you.”
She felt a flicker of irritation at his thorough knowledge of her history. “And you neglected to mention this connection when we met last night because…?”
“Professional habit.” The elevator glided to a stop at the top floor. “I never reveal more information than necessary until I’ve confirmed alignment of interests.”
“And have you?” she asked, stepping into a sleek corridor. “Confirmed our alignment?”
His dark eyes assessed her with that unnerving intensity. “That’s what today is about.”
The conference room occupied the northwest corner of the building, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Dallas skyline.
Five people waited around a glass table—Dynamis Security’s inner circle.
Their conversation ceased as she entered, their eyes carrying the silent evaluation of people accustomed to calculating threats.
She recognized the assessment—the same one she performed in trauma units during those critical first seconds. They were gauging her worth, her potential danger, her usefulness. Sabrina straightened her spine and met their scrutiny, unflinching.
“Introductions are in order,” Atticus said. “We use code names during operations—call signs. An old black-ops habit that’s proven effective in the field.”
He nodded toward a man with agile fingers and watchful eyes. “Calvin Cruz, our tech specialist. Known as Cypher when we’re operational.”
Cal flashed a grin that lightened his intense focus, his fingers tapping an unknown rhythm on the table.
“Nathan and Eden Locke,” Atticus continued, indicating a couple whose physical proximity betrayed their connection. “Warlock and Nightshade in the field.”
Nate offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Eden merely nodded, her exotic features revealing nothing.
“Max and Jade Devlin.” The final couple presented a study in contrasts—he massive with military-short hair, she all lean elegance with a knife dancing between her fingers. “Viper and Frost, respectively.”
“Don’t mind the knife,” Max said, catching Sabrina’s glance. “Stress reliever. Like those squeeze balls, but with the added benefit of keeping skills sharp.”
“And I’m Reaper,” Atticus concluded. “When the mission’s live, those are the only names we use. It helps us compartmentalize—separate the operative from the person. And it keeps our real names off the channels in case someone intercepts the frequencies.”
She glanced around the table. “You said an old black-ops habit. You all served together before Dynamis?”
“Some of us did,” Atticus replied. “Nate, Max and Jade served under my command in a specialized unit. Cal worked for an alphabet agency and was too skilled for them to know what to do with him.”
Something in the way they exchanged glances spoke of shared history deeper than professional connection—missions too classified to mention, dangers survived together that forged bonds stronger than friendship.
Atticus pulled out a chair for Sabrina at the head of the table, opposite his own position. The symbolism wasn’t lost on her—an equal in this gathering of predators. She set her briefcase on the polished surface and met his gaze across the glass.
“My time is limited,” she said. “So perhaps we could get to the point of this meeting?”
Cal’s unexpected laugh broke the tension. “I like her already.”
“The point, Dr. Wells,” Atticus said, settling into his chair with controlled grace, “is determining what each of us brings to the table, and how we can work together to stop Mitchell before he weaponizes this technology further.”
“What I bring is medical expertise and documentation of four victims,” Sabrina replied, opening her briefcase and placing a sealed file on the table.
“What I need is to understand why a private security firm with government contracts is pursuing a sitting US senator instead of taking this evidence to federal authorities.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Jade’s knife stilled between her fingers.
“We have our reasons,” Eden said carefully, exchanging a glance with Atticus.
“I’m sure you do,” Sabrina countered. “And if we’re going to work together, I need to know what they are. I’m not risking my career and possibly my life on a corporate vendetta or a power play.”
Silence stretched between them as Sabrina held Atticus’s gaze without wavering. Something dangerous flickered in his eyes—not directed at her, but at whatever demons drove him. The others watched with the stillness of operators accustomed to reading currents of power.
“Senator Mitchell orchestrated the murder of my wife eight years ago,” Atticus finally said, each word precisely controlled.
“He had her killed and my daughter shot because I was getting too close to his weapons-dealing operation. The official investigation concluded it was a random act of violence. It wasn’t. ”
The clinical detachment Sabrina had maintained began to fracture. The pieces aligned—his controlled rage at the gala, his personal pursuit of evidence against Mitchell, the loyalty of his team that surpassed professional commitment.
“I’m sorry,” she said simply, knowing no other words could suffice.
“We don’t want your sympathy, Dr. Wells,” Max said, his deep voice rumbling across the table. “We want your expertise.”
“And you have it,” she replied without hesitation. “But understand that my priority is stopping this bioweapon from being deployed. Justice for your wife is your motivation—saving lives is mine.”
Atticus nodded once, a gesture of acknowledgment and respect. “Then let’s get to work.”
For the next forty-five minutes, Sabrina presented everything she’d discovered.
Her delivery carried the measured particulars of countless medical presentations.
She explained how four patients had arrived at her emergency department over three months, each presenting with symptoms that defied diagnosis—hemorrhaging, neurological damage, rapid organ failure that progressed despite intervention.
“All four had connections to BioGenix Laboratories,” she said, bringing up medical charts on the screen Cal had prepared.
“A delivery driver who transported materials to their facility. A janitor who worked in their research wing. A lab technician from a subcontracting company. And finally, a graduate student who briefly interned in their quality control department.”
“None important enough to raise suspicions if they died,” Eden observed, studying the data with narrowed eyes.
“But all with just enough exposure to become collateral damage,” Jade added.
“Exactly.” Sabrina pulled up detailed microscopy images.
“What caught my attention wasn’t just the unusual symptoms, but the pattern of organ failure.
It wasn’t consistent with any known pathogen, yet followed a precise progression that suggested deliberate engineering.
The cellular destruction shows markers of a designer toxin targeting specific protein receptors found primarily in neurological and cardiovascular tissues. ”
Sabrina paused, weighing how much to reveal.
“Three weeks ago, after the second victim, I contacted Dr. Elaine Cho at BioGenix.” She traced the edge of her tablet with one finger.
“We’d collaborated briefly at a research symposium on trauma response to chemical agents.
Given the symptom presentation and the victims’ connections to BioGenix, I thought she might offer insights. ”
“And?” Cal prompted, leaning forward.