Page 9

Day three of lockdown crawls to a close like a wounded animal dragging itself to die.

The recycled air tastes stale, metallic with the tang of industrial cleaning products and institutional despair.

The low hum of ventilation has become my white noise machine, interrupted only by the mechanical click of the security cameras as they swivel to track my movements.

I'm sprawled on my bed, staring at nothing, when my door swings open without warning. The hydraulic hiss sounds obscenely loud after days of near-silence.

Killion fills the frame like darkness personified—all hard angles and cold purpose, his solid blacks hugging a body built for efficient violence.

His face betrays nothing, but his eyes flicker over me with that clinical assessment that makes my skin crawl and my pulse quicken. I wish I could explain my physical reaction to the man but it’s one of those mysteries that I don’t have the time or the patience to unravel.

Maybe that’s on purpose.

"R&R is over," he says, voice stripped of emotion. "Get dressed."

I raise an eyebrow, not moving. "Good morning to you too, sunshine. Or is it evening? Hard to tell when you're locked in a concrete box with no windows."

His jaw tightens—that microscopic tell that says I'm pushing too far, too fast. The fluorescent light catches the small scar bisecting his left eyebrow, highlighting it like a warning sign. "Ten minutes. Briefing room three."

He turns to leave, but hesitates. Something slips in his stance—a barely perceptible softening around the shoulders. "You holding up okay?" The question comes rough, reluctant, like he had to drag it across broken glass to get it out.

The unexpected concern throws me more than any threat could. I sit up, studying him for the angle, the catch, the trap hidden in four simple words.

"Peachy," I reply, voice dripping sarcasm. "Love being quarantined while someone who murdered my last fuck buddy might be gunning for me next. Really brings out my eyes."

He doesn't smile—Killion never smiles—but something almost human flickers across his face. "Volkov's not the type to leave loose ends. If he wanted you dead, you'd be dead already."

"Wow. You're incredible at pep talks. Ever consider a career in grief counseling?"

This time, I swear the corner of his mouth twitches. "Eight minutes," he says, and then he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him with the finality of a judge's gavel.

I drag myself to the shower, letting scalding water pound away the stiffness of captivity. My skin turns angry red under the assault, steam billowing thick enough to obscure the surveillance camera mounted in the corner.

The institutional soap smells like nothing and everything at once—antiseptic and bland, designed to leave no trace scent that could compromise an operative in the field.

My mind races, churning possibilities like a slot machine on speed. Why now? What changed? Is this a new mission, or my execution? The water sluices down my body, carrying away three days of paranoia but none of the underlying dread.

Seven minutes and forty seconds later, I stride into briefing room three like I own the fucking place, hair still damp, dressed in the tactical blacks they provide—pants that hug every curve, a fitted long-sleeve that feels like second skin.

The fabric is some high-tech composite—moisture-wicking, temperature-regulating, subtly armored at vital points. Power move. Never let them see you sweat.

The room's already occupied. Killion stands at the head of the table, arms crossed over his chest, the overhead lighting casting harsh shadows across the planes of his face.

Sienna leans against the wall, sleek as a stiletto, expression unreadable. The scent of her perfume—something expensive with notes of jasmine and gunpowder—cuts through the room's sterile air.

And there's a third—someone I don't recognize. Older guy, silver at his temples, eyes like polished steel behind expensive glasses.

His suit costs more than most people's monthly rent, tailored within an inch of its life to his lean frame. He has the look of someone who orders deaths over breakfast while checking stock portfolios.

"Asset Nova, this is Director Harlow," Killion says, the formal introduction setting my teeth on edge.

Director. Fuck me. Big guns coming out to play.

"S'up?" I nod, keeping my tone neutral while mentally cataloging exits, weapons, variables. Three against one. Bad odds if this goes sideways. "Is this a good meeting or a bad one?"

Killion looked to Harlow as if to say, 'See? I warned you she's a pain in the ass. ' To me, he points to a chair. "Sit down."

I decide not to be argumentative and slowly sink into the fine leather chair because frankly, I'm a curious cat. The leather creaks under me, still cool against the backs of my thighs, expensive enough to make me wonder about black budget allocations.

"Impressive first operation," Harlow says, voice smooth as aged whiskey but twice as dangerous. His accent has the faintest trace of old Boston money, vowels stretched just enough to betray an education at schools with Latin mottos and legacy admissions. "Unfortunate complications aside."

Translation: Nice job not dying when your target got his brains painted across a hotel suite.

"Thanks," I reply, deliberately casual. "Always aim to please."

Sienna's eyes flick to mine, a silent warning I can't quite decode. Her fingers tap a subtle rhythm against her thigh—one-two, pause, three—a nervous habit I've never seen from her before.

Something's off. The air in the room feels charged, molecules vibrating with unspoken tension.

Killion taps a tablet, and the wall screen flares to life with a soft electronic hum. Victor Reese's face appears—not the corpse version, but very much alive, smirking from what looks like a charity gala.

The high-definition display shows every pore, every silver hair, every smug line around his mouth. I can almost smell his cologne again, feel his hands on my skin. My body remembers what my brain wants to forget.

Beside Victor, another face materializes: Alexei Volkov, the gray-suit ghost who haunted the bar that night.

The image is grainier, taken from distance with a telephoto lens.

His features are Slavic, hard—cheekbones that could cut diamond, eyes like frozen mud, his hair dark and untamed, the kind of face that's seen too much and caused most of it.

"Victor Reese was moving more than money," Killion states, cutting straight to business. His voice bounces off the room's concrete walls, flat and precise. "He was brokering intelligence—specifically, the identities of deep-cover assets across three continents."

My stomach drops like an elevator with cut cables. The taste of copper floods my mouth as I bite the inside of my cheek. "Assets like... us?"

"Like you," Harlow confirms, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting lab specimen.

His manicured fingernail taps against the polished table surface—once, twice, three times.

"Your extraction was phase one of a larger operation.

We needed confirmation that Reese was the source of the leak.

You provided that. Now we move to phase two. "

I lean forward, adrenaline already humming through my veins like electricity. The chair leather squeaks beneath me, suddenly too hot, too constraining. "Which is?"

"Volkov," Killion says, tapping the screen again. The display splits into multiple windows, each showing a different angle. New images appear—Volkov entering buildings, meeting contacts, always in that same nondescript gray suit.

In one, he checks his watch—the same Omega Seamaster I saw him wearing the night of Reese’s murder.

In another, he passes something to a man whose face has been pixelated. "He's the middle-man. Takes the intel, sells it to the highest bidder. Usually hostile state actors with a taste for bloody retribution."

"He saw me with Reese," I point out the obvious. The memory flashes hot and sharp—Volkov's calculated disinterest at the bar, the perfect angle of his body that kept his face partially obscured from security cameras. "He knows my face."

"Precisely," Harlow smiles, the expression never reaching his eyes. They remain flat and calculating behind those designer frames. "That makes you our perfect bait."

The word hangs in the air between us, ugly and exposed. Bait. Not asset. Not operative. Bait. The air conditioning kicks on with a mechanical wheeze, sending a chill across my damp hair.

"You want to dangle me like a worm on a hook," I say flatly, "to catch a shark that specializes in eating people like me."

"To put it crudely, yes," Harlow confirms, unperturbed. He adjusts his French cuffs—platinum links winking under the fluorescents—with the casual indifference of someone discussing the weather rather than my potential disembowelment.

My eyes find Killion's, searching for... what? Reassurance? Denial? But his face remains impassive, a mask of professional detachment. Only a muscle ticking in his jaw betrays any emotion at all.

"What's the plan?” I ask, because what choice do I have? This isn't a request. It's a briefing. The metallic taste in my mouth intensifies as I swallow my pride along with my fear.

Sienna pushes off the wall, stepping forward.

The soft squeak of her tactical boots against the polished floor punctuates each word.

"We engineer a leak. Word gets out that you have access to the same server information as Reese, but more—the identities of the buyers.

Make Volkov believe you're planning to sell to his competition. "

"We'll plant digital breadcrumbs," Killion adds, calling up another screen that shows lines of code, IP addresses, server locations.

"False communications through channels we know are compromised.

Money transferred to offshore accounts in your new identity's name.

Meeting arrangements at locations we control. "