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TWELVE

emmanuel

"I don't know what you want from me," she says, her voice filled with anger. "I can't forgive you. I can't forget what happened."

Fuck, coming here wasn’t the right decision. I should have let her be. "I understand. I don't expect you to. I just... I needed you to know that I'm sorry. That if I could go back and change things, I would. In a heartbeat."

She takes a deep breath. "I can't forgive you," she repeats. "But... I hear you. Your apology. I hear it."

I come awake with a start. Fuck, I should have stayed away from her. I should have never thought about speaking with her. Nothing good was ever going to come from it.

I turn over and reach for my cell. Five-thirty a.m. Fuck, it’s still early. I’m in Argentina and have been now for the past two weeks. I’ve been scouting out the city, ready to get the perfect shot this evening.

It’s been two weeks since my talk with Clodagh and she’s been in my dreams every fucking night. I thought speaking with her would give me closure, but instead, it’s fucking with my head. I fucked up. I should have left everything well enough alone.

I splash some cold water on my face, trying to shake off the lingering unease from the dream. I have a job to do here. I can't afford to be distracted.

I head out for an early morning run, hoping the physical exertion will help clear my mind. The streets of Buenos Aires are just starting to come alive as I jog through them. There are people rushing around, some on their way to work, others just out and about.

As I run, I try to focus on the job ahead. My target is Carlos Mendoza, a corrupt politician with ties to drug cartels. He's scheduled to give a speech at a rally this evening—the perfect opportunity for a clean shot.

But my mind keeps drifting back to Clodagh. The pain in her eyes when she saw me. The tremor in her voice as she spoke.

"You could have stopped him," she had said. "You could have saved them."

I push myself harder, my feet pounding the pavement as I try to outrun the guilt. But it's no use. Her words echo in my head, drowning out everything else.

By the time I make it back to my hotel room, I'm drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. But my mind is no clearer than when I left.

I check my phone. There's a message from Cole:

Confirmation on tonight's event. Target will arrive at 7p.m. You'll have a 10-minute window for the shot. Don't miss it.

I stare at the message, my finger hovering over the reply button. For the first time since I started this work, I'm hesitating. Questioning.

Is this really who I want to be? The Silencer, taking lives from the shadows? Or am I just perpetuating the cycle of violence that destroyed Clodagh's life—and mine? I shake my head, trying to get rid of these thoughts. I can't afford doubts. Not now. Not with a job to do.

I start preparing my equipment for tonight's mission. I need to ensure everything is perfect. This is who I am, who I’m destined to be. I’m the Silencer. I stop those who are a threat to the innocent youth and those who are vulnerable.

* * *

As night falls over Buenos Aires, I make my way to the predetermined vantage point. The rally is in full swing, the crowd's cheers echoing through the streets. I set up my rifle with practiced ease, my movements automatic after years of doing this.

Through the scope, I scan the stage. Mendoza hasn't arrived yet. I check my watch—6:55 p.m. He should be here soon.

As I wait, my mind drifts back to Clodagh. To the pain and anger in her eyes when she saw me. "You could have stopped him," she had said. The words haunt me, gnawing at my resolve.

I shake my head, trying to focus. I can't afford distractions. Not now.

At 7:02 p.m., Mendoza's car pulls up. The crowd roars as he steps out, waving and smiling. I wait until Mendoza takes the stage and begins his speech. My window is closing. I need to take the shot now. I adjust my aim, centering the crosshairs on his head.

Exhale. Squeeze.

The shot rings out, quickly followed by the sounds of chaos. Through the scope, I watch as Mendoza crumples to the ground, a clean hole in his forehead.

As I quickly break down my rifle, my hands moving with practiced efficiency, I see Mendoza’s security surveying the scene. It’s time to get the fuck out of here.

I slip out of the building and blend into the panicked crowd fleeing the scene. My heart is racing as usual. It’s the post-job adrenaline.

I make it back to my hotel room without incident. As soon as the door closes behind me, I take a relieved breath and pull out my phone to send the confirmation text to Cole.

My phone buzzes in my hand. It's Cole. He couldn’t wait for me to send a text first?

Cole: Confirmation?

I don’t hesitate. I quickly type out my response.

Me: It's done. I’ll be heading to the airport in ten minutes.

There's a long pause before his response comes through.

Cole: Change of plans. We need you in London.

I stare at Cole's message, a mixture of surprise and wariness washing over me. A change of plans is unusual, especially right after a job.

Me: What's in London?

Cole's response comes quickly:

Can't say over text. Jer will brief you when you land. Jer’s plane will be waiting for you on the tarmac.

I frown at my phone. This is not standard protocol. Typically, there's a cooling-off period after a hit, time to ensure we haven't been compromised. Whatever's happening in London must be urgent.

As I quickly pack my belongings, my mind races. Is this related to The Agency's rumored expansion? Or is it something else entirely?

My phone buzzes again with the flight details. A private jet leaving in two hours. They really aren't wasting any time.

As I head to the airport, I can't shake the feeling that something big is about to happen. The adrenaline from the Mendoza hit is still coursing through my veins, mixing with a new tension building in my gut.

I board the plane, nodding to the pilot—one of Jer's men I recognize from previous jobs. His name is James O’Malley. As we take off, I try to relax, but my mind keeps drifting. From Mendoza to Clodagh to whatever awaits me in London.

Fourteen hours later, I'm stepping off the plane at a private airstrip outside London. Jer is waiting for me, his face grim.

"What's going on?" I ask as soon as I'm within earshot.

Jer glances around then gestures for me to follow him to a waiting car. Once we're inside and moving, he speaks.

"We've got a situation," he says, his voice low. "One of our own has gone rogue."

My blood runs cold. In our line of work, a rogue agent is about as dangerous as it gets. "Who?"

Jer's jaw tightens. "Lawrence Grey."

I feel like I've been punched in the gut. Lawrence Grey doesn’t work for The Agency; he's one of Houlihan men. He’s one of the closest men to Jer. "What happened?"

"He's taken classified information," Jer explains. "Names, locations, details of meets, shipments, kills. If that information gets out..."

He doesn't need to finish the sentence. We'll all be exposed. Hunted. Our lives, and the lives of those we care about, will be in danger.

"What do you need me to do?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

Jer meets my eyes, his gaze steely. "Find him. And silence him. Permanently."

I nod, my mind going back into work mode. This is the job. This is what I do.

As we drive through the streets of London, Jer briefs me on what they know of Lawrence's movements. But my mind is racing ahead, already planning, strategizing.

This isn't just another job. This is personal. And failure is not an option.

The Silencer has a new target and it’s one of our own.

As Jer continues to brief me on Lawrence's last known movements, I try to process the magnitude of this betrayal. Lawrence was one of us—trusted, respected. What could have driven him to turn against everything we stand for?

"Do we know why he's doing this?" I ask, interrupting Jer's rundown of Lawrence's potential hideouts.

Jer's jaw tightens. "Not for certain. But there are rumors he's been in contact with a rival organization. They may have offered him protection in exchange for our intel."

I nod, my mind already racing ahead. "So we're not just dealing with Lawrence, but potentially this other group as well."

"Exactly," Jer confirms. “Which is why we need to move fast...”

He doesn't need to finish the thought. We'd all be compromised. Every agent, every operation, every contact we have. It would be catastrophic.

"I understand," I say, my voice hard. "Where do we start?"

Jer hands me a file. "We've narrowed down his likely locations to these three spots. I want you to check them out, see if you can pick up his trail."

I scan the addresses—an abandoned warehouse in East London, a flat in Brixton, and a cottage on the outskirts of the city.

"What about backup?" I ask. "If he's working with another group, I might be outnumbered."

Jer nods. "Maverick's on his way. He'll be your support on this one."

I feel a wave of relief. Having Maverick here will make this whole situation a bit more manageable.

"One more thing," Jer adds, his voice grave. "If you get the chance to take the shot, don't hesitate. We can't risk him getting away or passing on that information."

I meet Jer's gaze, understanding the weight of what he's asking. This isn't just another mark. This is one of our own. But I nod anyway. "Understood."

As we pull up to a nondescript building—one of the hundreds of safe houses Jer has all over the world—I start mentally preparing myself for what's ahead. This isn't going to be an easy job, but it's necessary. For all of us.

"Emmanuel," Jer says as I'm about to exit the car. "Be careful out there. Lawrence knows how we operate. He'll be expecting us."

I nod, the gravity of the situation settling over me like a heavy cloak. "I will. And Jer? We'll get him. Whatever it takes."