Page 11

T he safehouse is a textbook study in controlled vulnerability—expensive enough for a deep-cover operative, secure enough to seem legitimate, but riddled with deliberate weaknesses that practically beg for infiltration.

Nineteenth floor corner unit, views for days, and enough blind spots to make any self-respecting assassin cream their pants.

I prowl the perimeter for the third time, cataloging exits, choke points, and the best places to stash weapons.

The apartment whispers of government budgets—high-end appliances with the warranty stickers still attached, designer furniture no one's ever sat on, and pristine white carpets that have never felt the desecration of actual human habitation.

"Nova, sound check," Killion's voice crackles through my earpiece, the microsonic transmitter vibrating against my skull.

"Receiving," I mutter, adjusting the necklace that might save my life or get me killed, depending on how the night unfolds. The pendant sits heavy against my collarbones, a constant reminder of the thin line between mission and suicide.

"Alpha team in position," he confirms. "Bravo standing by in the service corridor. Surveillance is live."

I glance at the innocuous painting on the wall, knowing there's a thermal camera hidden behind the canvas, watching my heat signature pulse with a combination of adrenaline and something darker, hungrier.

"Copy that," I respond, moving to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Nineteen stories below, the city sprawls like a circuit board, car headlights tracing electrical currents through the veins of downtown. Somewhere out there, Volkov is getting hard just thinking about peeling my skin off in strips.

"Remember," Killion's voice crackles in my ear, tension tightening his usually controlled tone, "when Volkov shows, we let him get close enough to confirm identity, then Alpha team moves. Your job is to stay alive until extraction."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm just the cheese in the mousetrap.

Look pretty, act vulnerable, don't get dead before you nab him.

" I adjust the designer dress they've poured me into—midnight blue silk that costs more than most people's monthly rent, slit high enough to reach my hip holster.

"Though I gotta say, if this is what bait looks like, I should've been fishing years ago. "

"Focus, Nova," he growls, but there's something beneath the command—concern, maybe, or just professional irritation at my inability to take imminent death seriously. Hard to tell with Killion. The man emotes with all the enthusiasm of a tax auditor on Xanax.

I check my watch—custom Cartier on loan from whatever black-budget wardrobe department outfitted me for this charade.

The face shows 21:37, but a subtle press of the stem reveals the real data: extraction teams' positions, emergency protocols, the countdown until the fake meeting I'm supposedly arranging to sell Volkov's secrets.

"Think he'll bite?" I ask, moving to the wet bar to pour myself two fingers of bourbon. Liquid courage, or maybe just something to steady my hands. The crystal tumbler feels cold and solid, a touchstone in a situation built on smoke and mirrors.

"He'll bite," Killion confirms. "Digital breadcrumbs are too tempting. Money transfers, communication intercepts, hotel arrangements for buyers. Our mole confirmed he accessed the files three hours ago."

I sip the bourbon, letting it burn a path down my throat. "Your confidence is touching."

"Just don't get cocky. Volkov didn't survive two decades in wetwork by being sloppy."

"Pot, kettle," I mutter, but he doesn't respond. Professional to the bitter end.

The waiting is the worst part. Each minute stretches like taffy, sticky and endless.

I circle the apartment again, restless energy burning through my veins like cheap vodka.

Something doesn't feel right—a whisper of wrongness I can't quite place, like catching movement in your peripheral vision that vanishes when you turn your head.

The bourbon glass is empty again, though I don't remember draining it. I set it down carefully, watching my reflection distort in the crystal—elongated, fragmented, a funhouse mirror version of whoever the fuck I'm becoming.

22:14. Nothing.

22:47. Still nothing.

My nerves are strung tighter than a junkie three days into withdrawal. The silence in the apartment feels loaded, dangerous, like the moment before lightning strikes.

"Status check," I whisper, needing to hear a human voice before I crawl out of my skin.

Nothing.

"Killion? Alpha team? Someone better fucking answer."

Silence.

Ice slithers down my spine. I move to the window, trying to spot the building where Alpha team should be positioned. The scope glint of a sniper rifle should be visible, a reassurance that I'm not alone in this.

Nothing but darkness.

"Comms are down," I say to the empty air, already moving toward the weapons cache concealed in the kitchen island. "Going to backup protocol."

The hidden panel slides open with a soft click, revealing the compact SIG Sauer and extra magazines I'd stashed earlier. I check the chambered round out of habit, though I know it's loaded. The weight feels good in my hand, solid and certain in a situation rapidly deteriorating into chaos.

That's when I hear it—the soft snick of the service door lock disengaging.

Too soon. Too fucking soon.

This isn't a surveillance operation anymore. It's a breach.

I kill the lights with a sweep of my hand across the wall panel, plunging the apartment into darkness broken only by the city glow filtering through the windows. The darkness is a friend, a lover, wrapping around me as I slide behind the kitchen island, gun ready, breath controlled to near silence.

The door opens with a whisper of well-oiled hinges. Someone's disabled the security alert that should have triggered. Someone who knows the system. Someone who had access.

Two figures slip in—shadows within shadows, moving with the predatory grace of professionals.

Their silhouettes are bulkier than standard—body armor under tactical blacks, night vision goggles giving them alien, insectoid profiles.

The first carries a suppressed MP5, the second what looks like a specialized breaching shotgun.

Not a kill team. An extraction team.

They're here to take me, not eliminate me. Volkov wants his answers fresh from the source.

"Clear," the first one whispers, the word barely a breath.

"Motion sensors show target in primary bedroom," the second responds, jerking his chin toward the far hall.

They think I'm asleep. They're in for a rude awakening.

I ease the safety off, calculating angles, timing, risk factors. Two against one, but they don't know I'm ready. Surprise is my only advantage, and it won't last long.

A third shadow slips in—taller, leaner, moving with an elegant economy that screams higher-level threat. Something about the silhouette tickles my memory, a nagging sense of recognition.

"Check the bedroom," the newcomer orders softly. "I'll secure the main area. Remember, we need her alive and relatively undamaged."

That voice. I know that voice.

The two operatives move toward the bedroom, weapons ready, while the third begins a methodical sweep of the living area. I track their movements, heart hammering against my ribs so hard I'm certain they must hear it.

The third operative passes the kitchen island, close enough I can smell the expensive cologne beneath the tactical gear. Close enough to see his profile in the dim city light filtering through the windows.

I know that profile.

Director Harlow.

The fucking Director is here, with Volkov's extraction team. What the fuck?

The realization hits like a shotgun blast to the chest. The whole operation is compromised. There's no Alpha team watching my back. No Bravo team in the service corridor. The surveillance is probably looping false footage while I'm being served up like a prime cut at a butcher's counter.

Killion's warning echoes in my head: "Don't trust anyone. Not even me."

But he hadn't said a goddamn thing about not trusting the Director of the entire fucking operation.

I have seconds to decide—fight now and die trying, or wait for a better opening. The decision crystallizes as Harlow moves past, his back to me for one precious moment.

I strike.

The bourbon glass makes a satisfying crack as it connects with the base of his skull. Not hard enough to kill—I need answers before I start eliminating problems—but enough to stun. He folds like a busted lawn chair, a grunt slipping out as he hits the hardwood.

Shit, did I just kill the Director?

Harlow groans and I release a sigh of relief even though the fucker looks guilty as hell showing up with Volkov’s team to kidnap me.

The noise, subtle as it is, draws the attention of the other two. They pivot, weapons raised, night vision scanning for the threat.

I don't give them time to find their boss.

I launch from behind the island, firing two shots in rapid succession.

The first catches Operative One in the throat, just above his body armor.

He drops, gurgling, the MP5 clattering to the floor.

The second shot goes wide as Operative Two returns fire, forcing me to dive behind the sofa as rounds stitch a pattern in the wall where I'd been standing.

“Stand down you little cunt or I’ll take out your kneecaps,” Operative Two barks, scanning the area, waiting for me to emerge.

Oh yeah? Eat lead, fucker.

I pop up from behind the sofa, squeeze off three rounds. One catches him in the shoulder, spinning him halfway around. He recovers fast, too fast, bringing the shotgun to bear.

The blast catches the sofa, shredding the designer fabric and sending splinters of frame into my leg. Pain explodes like white fire, but I roll with it, using the momentum to slide behind the heavy dining table, flipping it for cover.

Two rounds left in the magazine. Make them count.