Page 25

Kabir

“It’s crooked,” I said, nodding at Dylan’s tie.

We were in a blacked-out luxury SUV en route to the White House. Delara and Amelia were riding in a separate vehicle for security protocol—two cars meant more flexibility in an emergency, more ways out if shit hit the fan.

The drive from New York to D.C. had been uneventful. No tail, no alerts, just hours of Delara trying to get under Dylan’s skin with offhand remarks about me and Amelia. It was her favorite new hobby.

Dylan, true to form, hadn’t reacted once. Not a twitch, not a raised brow. Nothing. I couldn’t decide if it was his usual stoicism… or quiet acceptance. Maybe both. He hadn’t said a word about what I muttered to him last week.

Brother-in-law.

God help me, I still couldn’t believe I’d said it out loud.

Now, he was fiddling with his tie, trying to get the knot to sit straight. A frustrated snort left me before I could help it.

“You’re making it worse, brother.”

I swatted his hand away and took over, adjusting the knot, tightening it until it lay perfectly flat against his collar. That’s when I noticed it—a rare smirk creeping across his face.

“Don’t you mean—”

“Shut up,” I grumbled, cutting him off immediately. I gave his shoulder a shove and turned my attention to the window. Buildings blurred past. We were about three minutes out.

Then, without warning, his voice came—low, even, assured.

“You were serious about it?”

I didn’t look at him. Just nodded once, eyes still tracking the city around us.

“Yep.”

A beat passed.

“Good.”

That was it.

Just that.

No elaboration, no dramatic pause, no brotherly lecture. Just one word. And somehow, that one word landed harder than a damn monologue.

I would never understand his economy of language. It was like he assigned himself fifty words a year and rationed them like a war veteran.

We stopped right at the East Wing entrance.

The foyer of the White House was even more ornate than I’d imagined.

Cream and gold interiors, velvet drapery, polished marble flooring reflecting the cascading chandeliers above.

They’d kept the gala tucked between the Visitors’ Foyer and the Garden Room, keeping us far enough from the Situation Room—but close enough for tonight’s mission.

We stepped through the main entrance as diplomats from the Indo-Pacific Conflict Resolution Committee—a name Sebastian had fabricated with the help of one very convincing website and some actual diplomatic backchanneling.

As the security detail began conducting standard checks, I glanced at Amelia.

Fuck me.

She was poetry wrapped in tactical instinct. Her long black gown flowed like water but clung to her like sin. The neckline plunged low but not desperate—tastefully distracting. For me.

And God, that back. Smooth skin framed by a dress that knew when to stop and when to tease.

Her hair was pinned in a sleek low bun. Clean. Sophisticated.

And inside that bun, tucked just beneath the hair comb? A modified Sentrix 5.4, rigged to pass through standard magnetic scanning without tripping any alerts. Zane had rigged it weeks ago, with a graphite shell and low-frequency pulse mode. She’d only activate it once we hit Phase Two.

Dylan and I each carried our phones—network isolated, quantum encrypted. Delara had hers strapped to the inside of her thigh under a split seam in her emerald dress.

The Secret Service agent at the screening checkpoint gave me a once-over. “Name?”

His massive tattooed hand grabbed the tablet from the other security officer. Casually scanning the names on the list.

“Dr. Sahil Chawla. We’re from the IPCRC,” I replied smoothly, passing over the forged invite.

He scanned the QR code and checked the list on his tablet. His piercing gray eyes held mine for a beat and then he nodded. “Welcome to the White House, sir.”

They moved us through individually. Amelia walked with the confidence of a woman who belonged here.

She made eye contact with the agent, smiled politely, and breezed through.

Dylan gave a curt nod and kept walking. Delara…

well, she flirted with the poor agent in her very refined fake American accent.

He smirked slightly and waved her in so fast I almost rolled my eyes.

Once we were through, we regrouped under the ceiling of the East Colonnade Hallway. Classical paintings lined the walls, and ahead, strings of warm light and orchestral music bled out from the East Room where the gala was in full swing.

Delara glanced at her phone. “Consignment is in the main guest bathroom. Behind the third marble panel to the left of the mirror. Sebastian’s contact was thorough.”

“I’ll go with her,” Dylan offered, his voice quiet but firm.

I nodded. “Stay sharp. We’ll recon the floor.”

As they walked off, Amelia fell into step beside me. I glanced at her, my jaw tightening instinctively.

“You could’ve warned me,” I murmured.

She raised a brow. “About what?”

“That dress.”

She smirked. “We’re undercover. I’m supposed to blend in.”

“You’re not blending in. You’re… killing me.”

Amelia chuckled softly. “Focus, Dr. Chawla.”

I shook my head, smiling.

We stepped into the East Room, and I scanned the crowd. Crystal chandeliers hung above a sea of polished suits and sparkling gowns. Waiters moved gracefully with trays of champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres. Classical strings played softly in the corner.

I took two flutes and handed one to Amelia, not because I wanted to drink—just for the illusion. Eyes were everywhere.

“Three cameras,” Amelia murmured, her lips barely moving. “One on each corner, except for the main entrance.”

I nodded. “Pressure sensors on the doors to the West Hallway. And two plainclothes agents near the floral arrangements. They’re clocking the crowd.”

Then I saw him.

George Aiden.

The newly elected President of the United States. Tall. Clean cut. Mid-forties. Salt-and-pepper hair that made him look distinguished, like he’d just stepped off the set of a political drama. He stood near the far end of the ballroom.

“He’s younger than I expected,” I muttered.

“He’s also more dangerous,” Amelia replied under her breath. “He’s the people’s president for show. But we know he’s just Robert Romano’s puppet.”

I hummed in agreement.

Just then, Dylan and Delara rejoined us. Dylan’s gaze flicked between Amelia and me, then scanned the ballroom again.

“We’re good,” Delara said. “Armed and still beautiful.”

“Indeed,” I hugged her quickly, discreetly taking the gun she had ready for me. Amelia did the same with Dylan.

“We’re on the clock. Phase One is in place. Phase Two begins the moment that orchestra wraps up.”

The gala was alive with laughter and light, champagne and concealed tension. No one suspected a thing.

I had already altered the White House Crazon to fail at any facial recognition for the four of us. That, however, still left us open for any recognition in person.

As the orchestra concluded and announcements about a global initiative for accessible internet services began, Amelia and I exchanged a glance. It was time.

We moved casually through the crowd, weaving between guests, our demeanor relaxed.

We navigated our way towards the corridor leading to the West Wing basement. A security checkpoint loomed ahead. I nodded subtly to Amelia, and she adjusted her hair, revealing the Sentrix device cleverly concealed within her updo.

“Ready?” I murmured.

“Always,” she responded.

We approached the checkpoint, presenting our credentials. The guards scanned them, then us. After a tense moment, they nodded us through.

Descending into the basement, the atmosphere grew colder, more sterile. We reached the door to the Situation Room. Amelia retrieved the Sentrix, connecting it to the panel beside the door.

“Give me a moment,” she said, fingers flying over the device.

I stood guard, alert for any signs of interruption. Suddenly, two men turned the corner, their eyes narrowing as they spotted us.

“Can I help you?” one asked, stepping forward.

“Just got turned around,” I replied smoothly. “Looking for the restroom.”

They didn’t buy it—obviously. As they reached for their radios, I acted.

Quick as a flash, I pulled the syringe disguised as a pen from my jacket pocket, jabbing it into the first man’s neck.

He collapsed instantly. The second lunged at me, but I sidestepped, delivering a swift blow to his temple. He crumpled to the floor.

“Clear,” I said, turning back to Amelia.

“Biometric override authorized,” she announced. “You’re up.”

I placed my hand on the scanner, and the door slid open. We stepped into the darkened room.

“Check the cameras,” I reminded her.

“Already looped,” she confirmed.

I moved to the compact command terminal at the back, taking the Sentrix from Lia and plugging it into the secured port. The screen blinked awake—dark blue to gray—before flooding with Pentagon-level intel feeds.

I didn’t even pause to admire it. I didn’t have time to be impressed.

My fingers flew over the keys, eyes locked on the data streams. Incoming traffic, classified ops, encrypted communications—eight years’ worth of buried ghosts were coded into these logs.

Buried, but not dead.

“We’ve got less than three minutes before those guards wake up,” Lia warned, eyes glued to her phone. She was probably cycling through camera overlays, making sure the feed still looped that empty hallway.

I initiated the data dump. All intel from the last eight years. That would cover the full operational lifespan of the Alpha squads. The whole damn lie.

“Ninety-three seconds,” I said tightly.

“Great,” she muttered, typing fast. “Titan and Shadow are on standby for extraction.”

I nodded, reaching for my cell to monitor the internal feeds—watching every corridor between East and West Wing like my life depended on it.

Because it did.

And hers did too.

A sudden blur on one of the hallway cams snapped my spine straight. A flicker of movement where there should’ve been none.