Page 23 of The Words Beneath the Noise

Not just a sniper.

Not just a guard.

Something that might, if I was lucky, resemble a human being again.

I cleaned my pistol by candlelight, the familiar ritual soothing in its predictability. Outside, the snow had started falling again, soft and relentless, covering everything in white.

Somewhere across the grounds, Art was working. Decoding messages. Unravelling secrets that would shape the course of the war.

Including the one that would send me back into the field.

I thought about telling him. Breaking Finch's order, sharing the weight of what was coming. But that would put him at risk, and I'd rather carry the burden alone than drag him into something that might destroy us both.

So I kept my silence, and cleaned my weapon, and waited for the intelligence that would give me a target.

And tried not to think about how much harder it had become to imagine pulling the trigger when I knew whose work had made it possible.

I foundArt near the fence line.

He stood about fifteen yards from the wire, staring out at the empty fields beyond like they held answers to questions I couldn't hear. No coat, just that threadbare cardigan and a scarf half unwound, shivering in the December cold. This section of the perimeter was technically off-limits to non-security personnel, but Art had a talent for ending up in places he shouldn't be.

I closed the distance between us, boots crunching on frozen grass. “You're in a restricted area.”

He startled, spinning around with wide eyes. For a moment he looked like a deer caught in headlights, all sharp angles and pale skin in the moonlight. Then the surprise hardened into something defensive.

“I was thinking and I...” He trailed off, glancing back at the fence. “I didn't realise I'd walked this far.”

“You didn't realise.” I let the disbelief show. “You wandered half a mile from the main buildings, past three warning signs, into a section that's off-limits to everyone without security clearance, and you didn't realise.”

“I was distracted.”

“Distracted.” I stepped closer, keeping my voice low and hard. “Do you have any idea what happens if someone else finds you out here? If Finch gets a report that his star cryptanalystwas spotted lurking near the perimeter fence in the middle of the night?”

Art's chin lifted. “I wasn't lurking. I was walking.”

“Walking. In a restricted zone. Without authorisation. In December. Without a bloody coat.” I gestured at his thin cardigan, the wool so worn I could practically see through it. “What were you thinking?”

“I told you. I wasn't thinking. That's rather the point of walking, isn't it? To stop thinking for five minutes?”

“Most people manage to stop thinking without compromising an intelligence facility.”

His eyes flashed. “I'm not compromising anything. I'm standing in a field.”

“You're standing in a field that borders enemy-accessible territory, wearing clothes that wouldn't keep a cat warm, looking like you're either planning an escape or waiting for a contact.” I heard the anger in my own voice and didn't bother to temper it. “Do you understand how that looks? Do you understand what Finch would do with that information?”

“Finch can go to hell.”

“Finch can have you arrested. Interrogated. Transferred to somewhere a lot less pleasant than this.” I was close enough now to see him shivering, to see the way his jaw was clenched against the cold. “Is that what you want? To give him exactly the excuse he's been looking for?”

“He doesn't need an excuse. He's already decided I'm guilty of something.” Art's voice cracked, and for a moment I saw something underneath the defiance. Exhaustion. Fear. The same haunted look I'd seen on men who'd been in the field too long. “What difference does it make if I follow the rules? He'll find a reason to suspect me regardless.”

“The difference is evidence. Right now he has suspicions. You hand him this and he has proof of rule-breaking. Proof that youcan't be trusted to follow basic security protocols.” I grabbed his arm, harder than I meant to. “Think, Pembroke. Use that brilliant brain everyone keeps telling me about.”

He wrenched his arm free. “Don't touch me.”

“Then don't give me a reason to drag you back by force.”

We stood there, breathing hard, the cold air sharp between us. Art's eyes were bright with anger, his cheeks flushed despite the chill, and I realised with a jolt that he wasn't just defensive. He was furious. At me, at Finch, at the whole impossible situation.