Page 6

I stride through the steel doors of headquarters like I own the place, mission-high still buzzing through my veins like premium vodka.

My body's a map of victory marks—bite bruises on my neck, fingerprints on my hips, and the sweet, secret ache between my thighs.

The emerald dress is gone, traded for tactical blacks that hug my curves like a second skin.

Let them look. Let them see what success wears home.

The concrete labyrinth echoes with my boots as I make my way to debrief. No more hood, no more handlers steering me like a broken shopping cart. I've earned my place in this fucked-up family of killers and spies. I got the code. I fucked the mark. I mindfucked him for dessert.

Mission accomplished, bitches.

Two hours after Victor Reese's cock was inside me, I'm sitting across from Killion in what passes for a debriefing room. The air smells like industrial cleaner and testosterone. Sienna leans against the wall, arms crossed, face blank as virgin canvas.

"Report," Killion says, voice arctic. No 'hello.' No 'good job.' Just that one word, dropped between us like a block of ice.

Agent Asshole reporting for duty .

"Eight-four-seven-three-one-nine-zero-six," I recite, the numbers falling from my lips like diamonds. "Plus three secondary passwords and the encryption protocol. It's all right here." I tap my temple with a smirk. "Photographic memory. One of my many talents you're only beginning to appreciate."

“Did you follow protocol to the letter?” Killion’s expression was cold as stone.

The tiniest smile curving the corner of my mouth is my undoing.

“Landry.”

“God, you’re the fun police.” I grouse, crossing my legs, leaning back in the metal chair like it's a throne before admitting, “Maybe I got a little creative after securing the intel.

Consider it a performance bonus I awarded myself.

" I lick my lips, savoring the memory. “It was really a work of art, actually.”

“What the hell did you do?” Killion ground out.

“Oh, calm down. It’s not a big deal. You can’t hand me super cool spy tools and expect me not to use them.”

Killion’s low growl tickles me in private places but I figure I better not push too hard.

“All I’m saying is that I may have planted a really awkward psychological time bomb that may have him springing wood every time he thinks of his poorly departed mother.

” I cackled with amusement. “Imagine Victor Reese jerking off to the thought of his blue-haired conservative mother. Classic.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Killion barked, glaring at me like I’d just pissed in his cornflakes. “What is wrong with you?”

I arch an eyebrow, sitting up straight, hitting him with a glare of my own.

“What? Mission accomplished, parameters exceeded.

I deserved a little fun. Besides, the more.

.. memorable I made the encounter, the less likely he'd be to question what information he might have shared during our little pillow talk. "

His jaw tightens. "The psychological suggestion wasn't in your brief."

"The mother thing?" I shrug, examining my nails like they're suddenly fascinating. "Consider it a bonus. Insurance policy. He tries to come after us, we leak his new mommy fetish. His reputation's toast before the stock market opens."

Killion's eyes narrow to slits. In the fluorescent glare, his face looks carved from granite, all hard angles and cold calculation. "You compromised operational parameters for a personal fuck-you?"

"I improvised," I correct him, holding his gaze. "Isn't that what you trained me for? Adapting to the situation?"

"I trained you to follow orders."

"You trained me to succeed."

Behind him, Sienna's mouth twitches—the ghost of a smile, there and gone so fast I might have imagined it. But I didn't. She's amused. Interesting.

Killion slams his palm on the table, the sharp crack echoing through the sterile room. "This isn't a fucking game, Landry."

"Of course it is," I fire back, leaning forward, my voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "It's the highest-stakes game there is. And I just proved I'm very, very good at it."

He's on his feet now, looming over me like a storm cloud, all barely contained violence and cold control. "You think you're special? Irreplaceable? There are a dozen more like you—women with your skills, your profile, your particular... pathologies."

"Bullshit," I laugh, the sound sharp as broken dreams. "If there were a dozen more like me, you wouldn't be so pissed I went off-script. You'd just liquidate me and slot in the next desperate housewife with boundary issues."

Sienna makes a noise—something between a cough and a laugh—and Killion whips his head around to glare at her.

"Something to add, Agent?"

She straightens, face instantly professional, but I catch the glint in her eyes. "Just that perhaps we should focus on the intel. The operation was successful, despite"—she glances at me—"creative flourishes."

Killion's nostrils flare. He's furious, but he's calculating too. Cost-benefit analysis playing behind those cold eyes. I was right, and he knows it. Mission success trumps method.

"Reese accessed the Nexus Holdings server at 12:38 AM," he finally says, turning back to me. "The data you extracted confirmed our suspicions. He's laundering money for high-value targets including?—"

The door bangs open, cutting him off. A suited analyst rushes in, face pale, clutching a tablet. "Sir, there's been a complication."

Killion stiffens. "What kind of complication?"

"Victor Reese is dead."

The words drop like a bomb. My blood turns to slush.

"What the fuck?" I breathe. "That's impossible. The drug doesn't?—"

"Not the drug," the analyst interrupts, swiping through screens. "Gunshot wound to the head. Hotel security found him thirty minutes ago."

Silence crushes the room. Then everyone moves at once.

Killion's on the analyst, grabbing the tablet. Sienna's on her phone, barking orders. And I'm frozen, processing. Victor Reese, the man I fucked into oblivion six hours ago, is a cooling corpse.

"Blackout debrief," Killion barks, his voice cutting through the chaos erupting around us.

Two armed operatives materialize at the door like summoned demons. Sienna's already moving, tapping commands into a wall-mounted panel. The lights shift from sterile white to blood red, casting everyone's faces in crimson shadows. Somewhere, an alarm wails, then dies—strangled mid-scream.

"What's happening?" I ask, but no one answers.

They hustle me down a corridor I've never seen before, deeper into the facility's guts. No windows, no cameras, nothing but bare concrete and steel doors with electronic locks that require Killion's palm, retina, and a six-digit code that changes every hour.

The room they push me into is smaller than a prison cell, with a single metal table bolted to the floor and three chairs. No two-way mirror. No visible surveillance. This isn't for show—this is where real secrets get buried.

"Sit," Killion orders.

I do, because even I know when to pick my battles.

Sienna takes position by the door while Killion towers over me, not bothering with a chair. Power move 101. His face is cast in demonic red from the emergency lighting, turning his eyes into black pits.

"Start from the beginning," he says. "Every detail. Every word. Every person who saw you with Reese."

"I already told you?—"

"Again," he cuts me off. "Someone put a bullet in our mark's head thirty minutes after you left him. Either you were compromised, or you missed something critical."

The implication hangs between us like a grenade with its pin halfway out.

"I wasn't made," I say, fighting to keep my voice level. "Victor suspected a honey trap initially—pulled a knife— but I convinced him otherwise." I smirk, can't help myself. "Thoroughly."

"The bartender," Killion presses. "Who else saw you together? Who noticed you?"

I close my eyes, replaying the evening frame by frame. The mission profile's hardwired into my brain now, every detail accessible like files on a computer.

"The bartender. Carlos, Filipino, early thirties.

He nodded at Victor—they knew each other.

A woman in red Vera Wang at the corner table kept watching us.

Corporate wife type, probably jealous. Three finance bros by the window, Patek Philippe watches and coke-pink gums. One made a comment when we passed. "

My eyes snap open. "Wait. There was someone else."

Killion leans in, all predatory focus.

"A man at the bar. Gray suit, expensive but not flashy. I didn't register him at first because..."

"Because what?" Sienna asks, speaking for the first time.

"Because he was too careful not to look at us." The realization crawls up my spine like ice water. "Most people either stare or deliberately avoid staring. This guy had the perfect amount of disinterest. Trained disinterest."

Killion and Sienna exchange a look loaded with more meaning than a CIA cryptography manual. Silent communication perfected by people who've seen too much together—the kind that makes outsiders feel like they're missing half the conversation.

"What aren't you telling me?" I demand.

"Focus," Killion snaps. "The elevator to Reese's suite. Anyone see you enter? Security cameras?"

"Private elevator, keycard access. Victor said no cameras." I remember his hands on me in that mirrored box, his mouth hot against my neck. "But there was a staff entrance nearby. Maintenance corridor, probably."

"And after? How did you leave?"

"Service elevator. Changed clothes in a supply closet on the third floor. Exited through the loading dock at 1:17 AM exactly. No one saw me."

Killion paces the small room like a caged tiger, all coiled muscle and barely contained violence.

"What's going on?" I press again. "If Victor's dead, that means someone else wanted what we wanted. Or wanted him silenced."

"Or wanted to send a message," Sienna adds quietly.