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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Knight

She draws her knees up, wrapping her arms around them, visibly shaking. I don’t think it’s from exhaustion. The enforced rest took care of that. I doubt it’s from the painkillers. They’ll have long worn off. Which leaves fear or anger.

Maybe both. I have that effect on people.

I make no secret of the fact I’m studying her. Everything about her bears closer analysis now. The way she holds herself, trying to look smaller. The tight control she’s keeping over her breathing. The desperate insistence that she knows nothing about her brother’s work. Most intruders I’ve dealt with show different patterns. Calculated moves, practiced stillness, the kind of control that comes from training. She’s not following any of the patterns.

That detail bugs me more than it should. Most people lying about information try too hard to prove they have it. She’s doing the opposite. She’s almost frantic in her denial of knowing anything useful. Her reactions to questions are too raw, too uncontrolled. No one is that good at faking genuine terror. Not even A-list actors.

Which leaves two options. She’s either the best operative I’ve ever encountered …

Or she’s telling the truth.

A muscle in her jaw tightens, then releases. She’s working up to something.

More protests about her innocence? Another attempt to convince me about the ‘real’ Knight?

The former I’m pretty sure I’m going to agree with. The latter … not so much.

The way she came into my apartment makes no sense, not if she was purposely sent with a mission. Valid codes but completely unprepared for any resistance. Like someone knowing the way in, but nothing about what was waiting inside.

Her hand moves to her pocket, then falls away when she sees me watching.

Now that’s interesting. It isn’t a conscious move. It’s pure instinct. The kind carved into muscle memory.

Fuck. She’s reaching for a phone.

Something I didn’t search her for. If she has one, I should have already secured it. But with everything going on—her, Bishop’s request, the laptop. I’d forgotten all about it. Alarm bells ring in my head.

Fucking sloppy, Knight.

"Where is it?"

“What?” She frowns at me. “Where is what?” Her voice is shaky. She’s still afraid of sudden questions, and there’s still no sign of the practiced responses I’d expect from someone trained to handle interrogation.

"Your phone. The one you keep reaching for."

"I dropped it. When you …” She pauses and licks her lips. “When I dropped my laptop."

I run through my security protocols in my mind. Every sweep, every scan should have detected an unauthorized device. I’ve dealt with enough attempts to breach my systems to know all the standard … and not so standard … approaches. USB drives disguised as jewelry, cameras hidden in watches, phones loaded with custom malware. But all of those trigger alerts. And I’d focused everything on the laptop, instead of sweeping the apartment for bugs.

Have I been focusing on the wrong piece of tech?

“Stay there.” I don’t even know why I say it. I doubt she’s going to try and move while I’m in the same room as her. Her body language screams flight not fight.

Which is just another fucking piece of proof that points toward her being a pawn in someone else’s game.

“Are you sure you dropped it?”

Her fingers twist in the hem of her shirt. A nervous tell that no professional would display. “Yes. When you pointed the … everything happened so fast. The laptop fell, and I …”

She shakes her head, probably remembering the gun against her head. It’s hard to track small details when you’re two seconds away from having the back of your skull blown out.

That alone would make her the perfect courier. If someone got to her phone and tampered with it, then sent her here … She’d have been too terrified by my response to her intrusion to notice where it fell.

Which means I have to manually search for the damn thing.

I scan the room. It could be fucking anywhere. Under furniture. Behind equipment. Places a phone might slide during a confrontation.

Something must show in my expression because she presses herself harder against the wall when I stand up. I ignore her while I move furniture around. Her eyes dart between me and the door, her breath speeding up with each piece of furniture I shift.

I don’t think she has any idea what I’m doing. Her behavior isn’t the measured assessment of someone checking where potential exits are, it’s the pure animal panic at unpredictable behavior.

“Stand up.” When I spin to face her, she shrinks back.

“Please. I told you everything I know. I don’t know what you’re looking for.”

The utter confusion in her voice makes me pause. No trained operative would maintain this level of frightened ignorance through days of captivity. Even the best crack eventually, and show hints of their training. She just gets more terrified.

A muscle pops in my jaw while I stare at her, then I turn slowly and carefully do another scan … and that’s when I see it. It’s under the edge of the bookcase near the door, blending into the shadows.

I stride across and scoop it up, flipping it over in my hand. Ordinary. A civilian device that wouldn’t raise any red flags if anyone saw it. The kind of phone a normal person carries without even thinking about it.

“How old is your phone? When did you buy it?”

“I … a couple of weeks ago. My old one broke.”

“Did you get a new sim card?”

“After you started talking to your imaginary friend?”

She nods.

Fuck .

The perfect delivery system. I bounce it on my palm, then tap the screen. It doesn’t light up.

It’s either turned off or has a dead battery. Convenient.

My eyes lift to meet hers.

“I’m ordering food. Pizza good enough?”

The subject change throws her. Good. Off-balance means honest reactions, and right now I need to observe everything about her responses.

Her eyes widen. “Food? You’re thinking about food?”

"I could let you starve while I figure out what to do with you instead, if you prefer. Much more efficient that way." The sarcasm rolls off my tongue with practiced ease. "Contrary to whatever scenario you've built in your head, dead bodies are incredibly inconvenient."

"How would you know?"

"You really want me to answer that?"

She flinches slightly. No pretense there—just genuine fear of the man who held her captive. Who still is. Another perfectly normal reaction that makes no fucking sense if this is an infiltration attempt.

"Pepperoni or cheese?"

"What?"

"Pizza toppings. Simple choice." I scroll through delivery options, mind still analyzing reactions and possibilities. "Though if you prefer to continue our staring contest, that works too."

"I ..." She swallows. "Pepperoni. If I actually get a choice."

The order goes through. Fifteen minutes, which means it’ll be ten.

I go back to looking at her. She shifts uncomfortably, but doesn’t say anything.

Okay, think .

If she’s innocent, then someone has manipulated this woman for weeks, building her trust with an elaborate lie. They made her believe completely in their version of me. So completely that she walked into my apartment in the middle of the night without hesitation. No fear. No suspicion. Just absolute confidence she was meeting someone who wanted to help her.

Why? To get a phone inside my apartment.

Every piece of evidence points to her being exactly what she appears to be. A civilian who thought she was walking into a friend's apartment. Someone who truly believed she was meeting the person she’s spent weeks connecting with, sharing fears. Someone who’s spent weeks understanding her pain, supporting her search, and giving her hope.

The perfect unwitting courier who wouldn't know they were carrying anything. Wouldn't trigger any behavioral alerts. Wouldn't hesitate at the door. Would walk right in, convinced they were safe and had every right to be here.

Which means either someone made an enormous mistake choosing such an obviously innocent person as their infiltrator ...

Or they chose her precisely because she’s innocent.

Because they knew that every frightened reaction, every genuine confusion, every moment of raw terror would convince me she couldn't possibly be part of a larger plan.

The phone sits on my palm, cold and silent. Waiting .

Like the perfect trap. But one that only works if you think you've found it yourself.

Which means either they grossly underestimated my security protocols … Or the phone itself isn't what matters.

What matters is that I found it.

The question is why?

And what will happen when I try to turn it on?