Page 148 of Scarred Angel

I ignore the itch and dig into my pocket for my phone. A message from my aunt, the woman who raised me, waits on the screen.

It’s a photo.

One where three-year-old me is sitting in my father’s lap, tearing open a gift in front of a small Christmas tree. Our last holiday together.

Another image follows. The day he was promoted to detective. I’m in his arms again, clutching his badge. Only this time, he’s not looking at the camera. He’s looking at me. Proud smile, whole…alive.

I stare at it, trying to force the memory into focus, but I was so young that all I really have are photographs. Ghosts on paper. And something about that burns.

Rain dots my screen, blurring our faces until they’re nothing but color and light. I shove the phone back into my pocket as the downpour thickens.

Pictures don’t usually get to me. I made peace with his death a long time ago.

But there are nights like this when the smell of gunpowder still clings to my skin, and the screams are too fresh, that peace feels like a goddamn lie. That’s when the memory of his absence and everything stolen from me comes back to life.

I push off my truck and fling the door open, already picturing a hot shower, a stiff drink, and a movie to fall asleep to. But before I can climb in, a black SUV rolls up. No sirens or plates, just tinted glass too dark for city code.

I’m not surprised. They always know where to find me.

The passenger window drops, and a familiar voice cuts through the rain.

“Get in.”

There goes my fucking night. I slide into the backseat with a heavy huff.

Monitors glow in the dark with files, dossiers, surveillance footage, and faces I don’t recognize. One in particular stands out, and my eyes linger long enough to make me sit a little straighter.

“Operative 427, your transfer’s been submitted.” That gets my full attention. “You have forty-eight hours to report to Philadelphia’s Twelfth Precinct—deep-cover assignment.”

“Who signed off?”

I already knew this was coming, but it still grates.

“We don’t disclose sources. We receive orders. You execute.”

He slides a silver hard drive across the console. “Everything you’ll need is on this.”

“Why Philly?” I ask, not expecting an answer.

His gaze lifts for the first time, meeting mine in the rearview mirror. “Intel surfaced. An incident buried four years ago. You’ve been assigned recon, retrieval, and cleaning.”

That last word always sits wrong.Cleaning.The polite term for elimination. I’ve done enough of it to stop flinching. Mostly.

I pocket the drive and lean back, rain hammering against the windows. “Forty-eight hours,” I mutter.

He nods once.

My eyes flick back to one of the monitors, to the still image from earlier, and the name scrawled beneath it. That heavy feeling returns, twisting in my gut.

Remi Isabel Cain.