Page 7 of A Ballad of Blackbirds and Betrayal (Dynamis Security #4)

“Her response was telling. Initially helpful, requesting detailed lab reports. Then—nothing. Radio silence.” Sabrina’s expression hardened.

“When I followed up, she suddenly cited patient confidentiality protocols. For a research scientist with no direct patient contact to invoke HIPAA restrictions was more than unusual. A week later, the third victim arrived in my ER.”

“She was warned off,” Eden observed.

“Precisely. The next day, I received a formal cease and desist letter from BioGenix legal, threatening action against my medical license for harassment of their staff.” Sabrina pulled up the microscopy images again.

“That’s when I knew. No one responds that aggressively to a standard medical consultation unless they’re hiding something catastrophic. ”

She turned back to the scientific evidence. “Whatever they’re developing at BioGenix, it’s unlike anything I’ve encountered. The precise tissue targeting is…remarkable, in the most horrifying way possible.”

Cal whistled softly. “They’ve engineered something that can target specific tissues while leaving others intact?”

“That’s my assessment,” Sabrina confirmed. “Which makes it ideal for weaponization. It could be calibrated to cause maximum casualties or chronic disability without destroying infrastructure or creating environmental contamination.”

“The perfect weapon,” Nate said grimly. “Devastating but contained.”

“And nearly impossible to trace back to its source,” Sabrina added. “Without specialized testing that most hospitals lack, it would present as an unusual but not immediately suspicious cluster of deaths. By the time anyone connected the patterns, the damage would be done.”

Atticus had remained silent during her presentation, watching her with that unsettling intensity. Now he leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Your professional assessment of BioGenix’s progress?”

“They’ve moved beyond theoretical research to practical application,” she said without hesitation. “These deaths weren’t just accidents—they were field tests. Observing how the toxin affects different demographics, exposure levels, and progression timelines. They’re fine-tuning it.”

“For deployment,” Max concluded.

“Or sale to the highest bidder,” Cal added. “Mitchell’s financial records show increased communication with several international contacts known for arms dealing.”

Atticus nodded, absorbing this information with measured calculation. “We need to infiltrate BioGenix, access their research directly, and destroy their samples before they can be weaponized further.”

“And we need to develop a treatment protocol,” Sabrina insisted. “Something that can be rapidly deployed if they’ve already distributed samples.”

“Both will require someone with medical expertise on the inside,” Eden said, her gaze settling on Sabrina with speculative assessment.

“I’m a trauma surgeon, not a spy,” Sabrina said. “I’d compromise your operation before I took two steps into BioGenix.”

“Not necessarily,” Atticus countered. “Your medical credentials would give you legitimate access and reason to ask questions that would seem suspicious coming from anyone else.”

“And we’d provide the necessary training and backup,” Nate added.

Sabrina looked around the table at these people who moved in shadows she’d never navigated, who dealt in violence and secrets as comfortably as she wielded a scalpel.

“This is insane. You’re asking me to risk everything—my career, my license, possibly my life—on an unauthorized operation against a United States senator. ”

“We’re asking you to help us stop a bioweapon that could kill millions of people,” Jade corrected, her voice soft but implacable. “Isn’t that why you became a doctor in the first place? To save lives?”

The question hit its mark. Before Sabrina could respond, Atticus stood.

“Dr. Wells has given us enough for today,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “She needs time to consider her options.”

The others exchanged glances but rose without protest. They filed out of the conference room one by one, Cal with a cheeky salute in Sabrina’s direction, the others with the silent acknowledgment of professionals who recognized a tactical retreat when they saw one.

When they were alone, Atticus turned to Sabrina. “Let me show you something.”

He led her through the quiet executive floor to his private office—a corner suite with the same panoramic views but furnished in a way that balanced functionality with understated luxury.

Unlike the sleek modernity of the conference room, this space contained elements that spoke of the man behind the corporate facade—bookshelves filled with military history and strategy texts, a wall displaying framed photographs, and a desk that looked as though it had witnessed the planning of campaigns that never made the history books.

“You’re asking them to back off,” Sabrina observed as he closed the door. “Why?”

“Because I recognize pushing when I see it,” he replied, moving to a sophisticated computer setup in one corner. “And because you’re right—we’re asking you to take extraordinary risks based on limited information.”

She studied him in the late afternoon light that streamed through the windows.

The controlled power in his movements, the shadows in his eyes that never fully retreated, the slight stiffness in his left shoulder that suggested an old injury.

Everything about Atticus Cameron spoke of a man forged by violence yet governed by discipline.

“So give me more information,” she challenged, crossing to stand beside him.

As their session stretched beyond the hour she’d allocated, Sabrina discreetly sent a text to the hospital. She caught Atticus watching her as she typed.

“Calling in sick?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Asking Dr. Liu to cover my evening rounds,” she replied, tucking the phone away. “Some things are more important than hospital politics.”

He nodded once, understanding the professional risk she was already taking by being here.

For the next two hours, they delved into the evidence against Mitchell and BioGenix—financial records, intercepted communications, surveillance photographs, and laboratory requisitions that painted a damning picture of corruption and deadly intent.

Sabrina’s medical background allowed her to interpret technical details the Dynamis team had flagged but not fully understood, while Atticus connected seemingly disparate elements into a comprehensive strategy.

As evening descended over Dallas, painting the sky in deepening shades of amber and violet, Sabrina found herself seated beside Atticus at his workstation, poring over laboratory reports that confirmed her worst suspicions about the bioweapon’s capabilities.

The office had grown warm with the trapped heat of the setting sun.

Sabrina removed her blazer, draping it over the back of her chair as she leaned forward to examine a particularly troubling toxicology report.

The silk of her blouse clung to her, and she absently loosened the knot of hair at her nape, allowing a few strands to fall around her face as she concentrated.

“This cellular degradation pattern,” she murmured, tapping the screen. “It’s consistent with what I observed in the second victim, but the progression rate is significantly accelerated. They’re enhancing its virulence.”

When Atticus didn’t immediately respond, she glanced up to find him watching her. Something in his expression made heat rise unexpectedly to her cheeks. His gaze lingered briefly on the curve of her neck before returning to the screen with deliberate focus.

The moment stretched between them, charged with an undercurrent neither of them had anticipated. She sensed his sudden discomfort, the slight stiffening of his posture, and misinterpreted it as professional distrust.

“I’ve shown you mine,” she said, gesturing toward her medical data with a challenging arch of her eyebrow. “Now show me yours.”

The unintended double entendre hung in the air, creating a charged silence that made her pulse quicken. Atticus’s expression remained impassive, but something flickered in his eyes—a momentary crack in that perfect control—before he turned back to the computer.

“Mitchell’s financial records,” he said, pulling up encrypted files. “The transactions were expertly hidden, but we’ve traced payments from his charitable foundation through nearly two dozen offshore accounts before they reached BioGenix’s specialized research division.”

Sabrina leaned over his shoulder to examine the complex financial web, suddenly aware of their proximity—the scent of his cologne, the controlled rhythm of his breathing, the warmth emanating from his body. She remained perfectly still, drawing on the same focus she maintained during surgeries.

“These dates,” she said, pointing to a sequence of transactions. “They align exactly with the timeline of my patients’ exposures and deaths.”

“Confirmation payments,” Atticus suggested, his voice steady despite the tension between them. “Bonuses for successful testing milestones.”

“They’re monetizing suffering,” she said, her clinical detachment finally cracking to reveal anger. “Treating human lives as acceptable collateral damage.”

“That’s what men like Mitchell do,” Atticus replied, something dark and knowing in his voice. “They calculate the value of human life against their objectives and find it wanting.”

The bitterness in his tone drew her attention to the wall of photographs. Among them, prominently displayed in a silver frame, was the image of a beautiful blond woman with laughing eyes, her arms around a dark-haired girl who shared Atticus’s determined chin and penetrating gaze.

“Your wife,” Sabrina said quietly, not a question.

Atticus followed her gaze, and something vulnerable passed across his face before the composed mask returned. “Jane,” he confirmed. “And our daughter, Anna.”

The simple acknowledgment contained volumes of grief, loss, and determination. Sabrina moved to stand before the photograph, studying the vibrant, smiling woman who’d been loved by the man beside her.

“She was beautiful,” she said, the genuine compassion in her voice creating the first real personal connection between them despite both their efforts to maintain professional boundaries.

“She was extraordinary,” Atticus corrected softly, coming to stand beside her. “Brilliant, fearless, and uncommonly kind. The kind of person who made everyone around her better simply by expecting the best from them.”

“And your daughter?” Sabrina asked, noting the fierce pride in his voice when he spoke of the girl.

“Anna survived.” The words carried the weight of gratitude, grief, and rage in equal measure. “She’s in college now. Georgetown. Political science. She wants to change the system from within.”

Sabrina nodded, understanding the mixture of pride and fear such a path would evoke in a father who knew firsthand the corruption within that system. “She has your determination.”

“And her mother’s courage,” he added.

They stood side by side before the photograph, the personal loss that had driven Atticus’s eight-year quest for justice now tangible between them.

Sabrina felt the last of her professional detachment slipping, replaced by something more complicated—understanding, compassion, and the recognition of shared purpose despite their different paths.

“I’ll help you,” she said finally, turning to face him directly. “Not just with the medical aspects, but with whatever plan you’re developing to stop Mitchell and BioGenix.”

Atticus studied her face, searching for hesitation or doubt and finding only resolve. “It will be dangerous.”

“I know.”

“You could lose everything.”

“If Mitchell deploys this weapon, a lot of people will lose everything,” she countered. “Including their lives. I took an oath, Mr. Cameron.”

“Atticus,” he corrected, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

“Atticus,” she acknowledged with a nod. “I took an oath to do no harm. Sometimes that means preventing harm before it happens.”

Something shifted in his expression then—a new assessment, a recognition of shared values despite their different worlds.

The professional distance between them had narrowed over the hours they’d worked together, her scientific approach complementing his strategic thinking in ways neither had anticipated.

“Welcome to Dynamis, Dr. Wells,” he said, extending his hand.

“Sabrina,” she corrected, accepting his handshake.

Their hands remained joined a moment longer than necessary, the contact conveying something neither was prepared to acknowledge—the beginnings of a partnership that would test both their professional boundaries and their personal convictions.

Outside the windows, darkness had fallen completely over Dallas, the city’s lights glittering against the night sky like stars fallen to earth.

Within the office, something new had taken shape—an alliance forged in shared purpose, mutual respect, and the understanding that some enemies could only be defeated by working together.

Neither of them could have predicted how deeply that alliance would ultimately transform them both.