Page 35

Three days pass in a blur of espresso beans, laughter, and waiting. One day longer than Hank and Gabe promised, but I’m trying not to dwell on that.

Morning brings a false sense of normal. Sunlight streams through Jenna’s windows, casting warm patterns across the living room floor. The coffee smells rich and comforting. Luke’s laughter as he plays with Max carries the innocent joy of childhood. If I didn’t know better, I could almost believe yesterday’s fears were nothing but anxiety-induced paranoia.

But the certainty that gripped me at dawn hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s grown stronger.

We fall into our morning routine easily—mugs passed hand to hand, jokes traded across Jenna’s kitchen.

We get ready for the day and pile into two Guardian golf carts, headed for The Guardian Grind. Rebel claims she needs a triple shot or someone’s going to die.

We prep for the day and then open the shop for the early morning crowd, those coming off the night shift and those heading in for the day .

By mid-afternoon, I’ve slipped back into the rhythm of work more easily than I expected.

“Your technique is getting pretty good,” Malia observes as I expertly steam milk for yet another latte. She nudges me with her elbow, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. “I might have to offer you a permanent position.”

“I’d have to clear that with my two very possessive handlers,” I quip, though their extended absence weighs on me more than I let on.

Malia catches my glance at the door—probably the hundredth time I’ve checked it today.

“No news is good news,” she reminds me gently. “Walt says communications blackout is standard for sensitive ops.”

“I know,” I sigh, pouring the milk into the espresso with surprising precision. “I’m fine.”

And I am, mostly. The last three days have been unexpectedly… good.

Staying at Jenna’s apartment has felt like the college experience I was too busy studying to have. Malia hasn’t left my side, insisting on sleeping over each night, the two of us sharing Jenna’s guest bed like longtime friends at a sleepover.

I refuse to let my mind wander to all the possible reasons for the delay. Instead, I focus on the latte art I’m attempting—a simple leaf pattern that looks more like an abstract blob. Still, the customer smiles appreciatively when I hand it over.

“You’re getting better at that,” Malia approves. “Keep practicing; you might catch up with Rebel in a year or two.”

Behind the counter, Rebel snorts without looking up from her own far more intricate creation. She suddenly steps back from the espresso machine with a frustrated growl.

“Not again,” she mutters, tapping the frozen digital display mid-cycle. “This thing was just fixed yesterday.”

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask, stepping closer to examine the machine.

“Who knows? Gremlins? Third time this week, it’ s glitched out.” Malia unplugs the register, counts to ten, and plugs it back in. “We’ll have to call Mike the Mechanic back.”

Jenna groans. “Again? He’s basically our part-time employee at this point.”

“He should be on payroll,” Rebel mutters, wiping down the espresso machine. “Maybe give him a punch card—ten repairs and he gets a free latte.”

“I bet he’d laminate it,” Malia says, deadpan. “Color-coded. With a barcode. But it’s too late. Jenna’s been hooking him up with free lattes. He expects it now.”

Rebel snorts. “Mike the Mechanic and his sacred toolkit. Guy acts like he’s defusing a bomb every time he touches a coffee grinder.”

“I swear he talks to the equipment,” Jenna adds. “He stroked the register last time. Called it sweetheart.”

“Okay, but did it work afterward?” Rebel asks.

Malia sighs. “Yeah. Eventually. I think the register was just trying to get rid of him.”

They all laugh, the tension breaking just enough to feel normal—almost.

“Have electronics always been this temperamental around here?” I watch the machine reboot sluggishly.

“Not until recently,” Jenna calls from the register, repeatedly tapping a stubborn touch screen. “This thing just froze in the middle of a transaction.” She offers an apologetic smile to the waiting customer. “Sorry about this. Technology, right?”

The customer—a young man in a Guardian HQ security uniform—nods understandingly. “Tell me about it.”

A chill runs down my spine as I remember Mitzy’s concern about my laptop and USB drive.

“My meeting with Mitzy keeps getting postponed,” I say, wiping down the steam wand. “Three days in a row now.”

Malikai may have brought me my USB, but I have questions for Mitzy.

“She’s probably tied up with the mission,” Malia says. “The tech team runs support 24/7 when there’s an active op. ”

“I know. It’s just?—”

“It’ll keep another day,” Malia assures me. “In the meantime, you’ve gained five new best friends and mastered the art of the perfect macchiato. I’d call that a productive use of your time.”

She’s not wrong. The evenings with Charlie’s Angels have been… healing, somehow.

It feels like I’ve gained a sorority of sisters I never knew I needed—women who understand exactly what it means to have your life fractured into befores and afters .

“Are you sure you want to stay for closing?” Malia asks, glancing at the clock. “We’re almost done with the rush.”

“I promised Sophia I’d help with inventory,” I say. “Besides, what else would I do? Sit around Jenna’s apartment and stare at the door?”

“Fair enough,” Malia concedes. “Just don’t want you wearing yourself out. For all we know, the guys could be back tonight, and you’ll need your energy.”

Something in her tone makes me look up sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She grins, and that familiar mischievous sparkle in her eyes flashes. “Just that after three days away, I imagine they’ll have… needs . I know I do.”

“Malia!” I glance around to make sure none of the customers heard.

“What?” she points out reasonably. “You can’t tell me you’re not looking forward to?—”

“Order up!” Jenna calls from the register, saving me from whatever explicit scenario Malia was about to describe.

The afternoon fades into evening, the steady stream of customers dwindling to a trickle. I’m restocking napkins behind the counter when the lights flicker briefly, causing several patrons to glance up from their devices.

“That’s the third time today,” Sophia says, arriving for her evening shift. “Maintenance says it’s nothing, but…”

“But everything electronic seems to be on the fritz lately,” Malia finishes, frowning at the register as it suddenly reboots itself. “Great. There go all our open tabs.”

“I can re-enter them,” Jenna sighs, reaching for the paper backup she’s been keeping. “Good thing I started writing these down.”

“Smart,” I say, glancing at the security cameras in the corner of the ceiling—one has its red recording light blinking irregularly. “Is that normal?” I ask, nodding toward it.

Malia follows my gaze and frowns. “No. Security systems should be on a separate circuit.” She pulls out her phone to text someone, then frowns. “And my battery’s at 15% after charging it an hour ago.”

A customer approaches the counter, looking annoyed. “Your Wi-Fi just went down again,” he informs us. “Second time I’ve had to restart my VPN connection.”

“Sorry about that,” Sophia tells him smoothly. “Can I offer you a free pastry for the inconvenience?”

As Malia rings up the next order, I step a little closer, keeping my voice low. “You don’t think all this could be connected, do you?”

She doesn’t look at me, just keeps tapping on the register. “Connected to what?”

“My USB drive. The battery drains. The glitches…”

Malia pauses just long enough for the silence to tighten, then shrugs. “How would that work? Your drive’s never been anywhere near the equipment here.”

“But still?—”

“It started before you.” She glances at me, her voice dropping. “Before you ever came to The Guardian Grind.”

That stops me. “Before me?”

“Yeah. Right about when I came back on. After…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to.

Kazakhstan.

A chill slides down my spine.

“It’s probably just wear and tear,” Malia adds quickly. “We push this gear hard. Most of it wasn’t designed for the level of business we get in this coffee shop.” But her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

And the register glitches again.

The door chimes. My back is to the entrance, so I don’t immediately turn.

“We’re closing in fifteen,” Jenna calls out automatically.

The responding silence feels charged, somehow—electric and heavy as the air before lightning strikes. I turn slowly, napkins clutched in white-knuckled fingers, and there they are—Hank and Gabe filling the doorway like storm fronts, their presence swallowing the light from the room.