Page 64 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

The Director

The explosion appeared in three simultaneous feeds on my monitor—security footage, satellite thermal imaging, and a grainy smartphone video already circulating online.

Flames tore through the S?o Paulo facility with beautiful artistry.

The loss should’ve been devastating, but I knew better than anyone else that the most beautiful creations could rise from ashes.

And that was my intention.

I leaned back in my leather chair, letting the warm amber light from my desk lamp wash over me as I savored the orchestrated destruction.

The blue glow from the monitors painted my office in contrasting cool tones.

Below my window, Manhattan sprawled like a circuit board of light and shadow, utterly disconnected from the chaos unfolding across my screens.

I whistled softly when the main structural support collapsed, bringing down the east wing in a cascade of concrete and steel. Not random destruction—there was elegance in how the building imploded .

“Magnificent,” I murmured, cocking my head to side. “My assets always did have a flair for demolition.”

I reached for the glass of Macallan 25 on my desk, swirling the amber liquid twice—never more, never less—before taking a measured sip.

The whiskey’s warmth bloomed across my tongue, but failed to evoke any emotional response.

I hadn’t tasted pleasure in decades. What remained was pure analysis: 86 proof, notes of oak, vanilla, and dried fruit. Acceptable.

The secondary explosion triggered right on schedule, obliterating what remained of the research wing.

With it went years of data, dozens of subjects, and one moderately competent operations manager.

Brock’s final contribution to the project—serving as kindling.

That was, perhaps, his biggest achievement yet.

I couldn’t say that he’d be missed—or that his absence would be noticed in the infrastructure of the machinery I had built.

Footsteps approached outside my door—Alban’s distinctive gait, unhurried yet purposeful. With a casual tap on my keyboard, I closed the S?o Paulo feeds just as my office door opened.

Alban entered with the silent efficiency that made him invaluable, his tailored suit unmarked by even a wrinkle despite the late hour.

“The S?o Paulo police have secured the area,” he reported, standing before my desk with perfect posture.

“Our contacts have already initiated containment protocols. By morning, it will be classified as a gas leak in an abandoned property. No connection to any legitimate business interests.” He was trained to follow the protocols in moments like these—I knew he was someone I could count on.

Someone who would get the job done. Unlike Brock.

The world would know what I wanted them to know.

“And our assets?” I asked, tracing the rim of my whiskey glass with one finger.

Alban’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly—a reaction I had cataloged many times in our years of collaboration. A sign of delivering information he knew I would find suboptimal.

“Maeve Durham and Reaper have disappeared. No trace on any transit systems or surveillance networks.”

A flicker of annoyance passed through me—an outdated response from the limbic system I’d spent decades trying to override. I dismissed it with a wave. “Interesting. Two lab rats escaping the maze.”

I turned to study the Manhattan skyline, each building categorized and measured in my mind. “Reaper was always the anomaly in the data. Too resistant to the final stages of conditioning. I suppose this was to be expected.”

“Should I prioritize retrieval, sir?”

I remained silent for exactly seven seconds—enough to make Alban shift his weight to his other foot. These small exercises in discomfort kept him properly calibrated.

“We’ll deal with them later. What about the journalist’s data?”

“Fragments have started to appear on secure channels. Nothing mainstream yet, but I sense it will gain traction.”

I snorted, genuinely amused. “A journalist with partial information? Hardly our worst problem. We’ve weathered congressional inquiries and UN investigations.

” I gestured toward the glass wall overlooking the financial district.

“The world prefers comforting lies to uncomfortable truths. Control is what everyone ultimately wants, Alban, even if they lack the courage to admit it.” I savored another sip of whiskey.

“As for Ms. Durham, her credibility erodes with each outlandish claim. Our friends in the media have already begun the work of dismissing her as paranoid and unstable.” That was the easiest way to handle the situation.

And with her current life events—her brother’s supposed death and chasing dead ends—I suspected it wouldn’t take much to convince the world that she was unreliable.

“Have our remaining assets lie low while we assess exposure risk.”

“And Specter?”

I considered this, swirling the amber liquid in my glass exactly twice.

I had designed Specter myself—the evolution of our conditioning methods after the failures of the Prima generation.

Once, I considered him nearly perfect—controlled aggression, minimal personality artifacts, and excellent tactical assessment.

“If he’s compromised, eliminate him. If not, leave him. Reconditioning a faulty asset is rarely worth the investment.”

Alban cleared his throat. “There’s a complication, sir. They have him.”

This gave me pause. He didn’t have to say the name for me to understand. I set my glass down two inches from the edge of the coaster, giving Alban my full attention. That was an undesirable complication.

“When? ”

“Within the last hour. He was extracted from the facility with multiple wounds. He’s in their custody at a secure medical facility.”

“Interesting. And very quick intervention.” The timing suggested a pre-arranged extraction. Someone else was moving pieces around my board. The only question was—who?

I tapped my fingers against the polished mahogany. “Monitor the situation. We have people on surveillance. Specter may still prove useful, even in custody.”

“With respect, sir,” Alban said, his voice carefully modulated, “Specter spent significant time with the Durham woman and Reaper. His loyalty is no longer with us.”

I studied Alban, noting the subtle tension in his shoulders, the careful neutrality of his expression. He was hiding something—fear, perhaps. Or knowledge.

“You don’t think he can be trusted?”

Alban’s eyes dropped briefly to his tablet. “I believe his conditioning has degraded beyond reliable parameters.”

“I see.” Interesting term—degraded. As if humanity were a form of decay rather than merely an inefficient operating system. I rose from my chair, buttoning my vest before sliding my hands into my pockets.

“You know, Alban, even broken toys can have their uses. Sometimes the cracks are what make them valuable.”

I moved to the window, gazing down at the city beneath us—a jeweled tapestry of light and darkness, utterly oblivious to the games played in offices like mine. A million souls, each believing themselves free while following paths my algorithms had predicted years ago.

My gaze drifted to the darkened screen showing the S?o Paulo facility. “Perhaps our methods need refinement. The Quinta subjects remain stable, but only by sacrificing operational longevity.”

“Will that be all, Director Dresner?” Alban asked.

I smiled at my reflection in the window, looking at the curvature of lips that conveyed confidence without warmth. “Have the jet prepared. I believe it’s time we paid closer attention to our European operations.”