Page 3

Mia

The sun won’t be up for another few hours and it’s dim in the back of the Uber. It’s also spacious, but there’s something about being in the confines of a vehicle with Archer that makes it feel smaller. Perhaps it’s his height. Or his insistence on accompanying me to my father’s place that make him seem, I don’t know…stern? Fierce? Mysterious.

He’s dressed casually in dark rinse jeans with a navy button-down shirt. Within minutes of arriving, he rolled the sleeves halfway up his forearms, where delicate veins danced and popped every time he’d make a keystroke on his laptop. His attire is closer to someone stepping out to grab a coffee rather than protecting a client, but features like the high-quality laces, reinforced eyelets and worn-in nature of his brown leather boots tell me he doesn’t dress for looks. Utilitarianism is Archer’s middle name.

When Ash told me she’d called her cousin, I imagined a group of men in black suits. Not Men in Black per se, but I guess white haired guys that you’d see flanking the president. And then I remembered Ashlee mentioning that half her cousins were Marines. Were the entire team former servicemen? Given their names and their current employment, I’d safely wager yes.

I steal a glance at Archer out of the corner of my eye. He’s texting. Calloused, but slender fingers fly over the screen which illuminates his features just enough to reveal that his furrowed brow has smoothed.

“That was Legion,” he states.

“Oh?”

It’s a minor movement, but he leans towards me and says in a low voice, “No sign of B one on the left and one on the right. In the void between them is a small inscription that is too difficult to discern on dough. When I get back to my house, I will make a proper impression on clay that I keep for crafting.

“I’m assuming this is enough to point us in the right direction?”

“Well, yes,” I say. “This piece was made by the Guztá people.” I make a noise that is somewhere between a groan and awe.

“Colombia, then?”

“I’m impressed with your memory,” I praise, remembering how I briefly told them the legend of the cuff earlier.

“I retain information well. It’s part of my trai—”

Dillon’s voice dies in his throat. A sound comes from the elevator shaft. He reaches for his gun. Every muscle in his body goes taught. He turns to me, silencing me with a finger. I crouch behind the island at his signal. But not before I mash the dough together, erasing our find.

The elevator doors open.

And I hear a scream.