I thought about the letter, the new scar, the way her eyes darted to every shadow beyond the porch. She was right—theonly thing left was to take it one day at a time, and never trust that the peace would hold.
I rolled my shoulders, let the ache remind me who I was, then lit a fresh cigarette and watched the smoke drift into the dark, hoping it would find her out there, wherever she was going.
***
Seraphina’s place was out past the ghost subdivisions and halfway up the old Forest Service road, a glass-and-concrete nest built into the scree. When I hit the final bend, I saw her Civic parked tight against the curb, but another car—silver, unremarkable except for the newness of the tags—was nosed up behind it, like a rat sniffing at a trap.
I killed the lights and coasted. The moon was high, sharp as a scalpel, the stars scattered in a nervous perimeter. I cut the engine, rolled the last twenty feet in neutral, and thumbed the kill switch. Then I sat a minute, listening for anything the night might confess: a cough, a footstep, a misplaced engine tick.
There was nothing, until a door slammed at the house. Not hers—the sound was too forceful, too deliberate. I slipped off the bike, leaving the helmet, and scanned the driveway. The unfamiliar car had government plates, but the rental sticker on the window was a dead giveaway for cheap federal muscle. I moved to the treeline, sticking to the dark, and circled around to the rear of the house.
The deck was lit from inside, but the curtains had been drawn, a gesture of hope rather than security. I saw the silhouette of a man pacing the length of the porch, then stopping just short of the door. He had the build of an athlete gone to seed, suit jacket riding high on the shoulders, something in his hand that caught the light like a promise.
Seraphina stood just inside, motionless. Her hair was down, a river of black over the pale line of her collarbone. Her arms were at her sides, but one hand gripped her phone. She was either waiting for backup or stalling for time, and I was betting the latter.
I checked my pockets. Nothing but a folding knife, a lighter, and a roll of electrical tape. The hand cannon was back at the club. I was running light, which made the odds clean and simple: get in, make noise, hope for chaos.
I moved along the deck, knees bent, boots silent on the duff. The man at the door didn’t look up. He was talking—low, controlled, the cadence of a man who’d spent time in rooms where talking was a prelude to violence.
“…doesn’t matter if you changed the protocol,” he said. “You know how these things work, Dalton. It’s always about leverage. You’re too smart to play the damsel, so don’t start now.”
He raised his hand, and the shape resolved into a pistol. Not a big one—a compact, something meant for close-in work. He leveled it at the glass, just above Seraphina’s head.
She didn’t move. Her voice was cool, precise. “You won’t shoot. The code is worthless if I’m dead.”
He barked a laugh. “You think you’re the only one who can finish it? You think the Russians didn’t already pull your backups?”
She swallowed, the gesture minute but visible. “Then why are you here, Dr. Holloway?”
That froze me. The man’s head cocked, amused at the reveal.
“Because, Seraphina,” he said, “I’m the one they send when the first string fails. And right now, you’re the only asset left standing.”
He stepped closer. The gun was steady. My hands went slick. I crouched, found a chunk of rock in the duff, and weighed the odds.
I waited for the next line.
Holloway took another step, so close now that the glass almost kissed the muzzle. “You come out, you get in the car, you tell them what they want, and maybe you come back with all your fingers. Or—” He shrugged, “—we make it look like a domestic, and someone else gets the Nobel.”
Seraphina blinked once. Then she did something so reckless I almost shouted. She set the phone down, turned the knob, and opened the door.
The air went dead silent.
She stepped out onto the porch, her posture loose, almost resigned. “Fine,” she said. “Let’s get it over with.”
He grinned. “Smart girl.” He motioned with the gun, but his eyes tracked the inside of the house, looking for a second threat.
That was my chance. I angled off the deck, circled to the side, and climbed the retaining wall. I didn’t care about the scratches. The pain was now, and the outcome was all that mattered.
I lined up behind the porch post, maybe ten feet from the two of them. The gunman had his back to me now, too focused on the prize.
I waited until he was a step from Seraphina.
She stopped, arms at her sides, and looked him in the eye. “Are you going to shoot me here?” she asked, voice flat.
He laughed, a sound of pure condescension. “Not unless you make it interesting.”
She nodded. Then, in a movement so fast it stunned me, she turned and sprinted for the far edge of the porch. Holloway moved to grab her, his attention split, and that was when I made my play.
