"Volkov received the message an hour ago," Sully reports, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "Encrypted email from an anonymous source claiming to have information about Jordan's location and schedule. He took the bait. He's mobilizing his security team."
The message was carefully crafted. Offering detailed intelligence about Jordan's movements in exchange for a substantial payment. The kind of intelligence a well-placed traitor might sell. The kind Volkov couldn't resist verifying personally.
"Where's the meet?" Adam asks.
"Warehouse in Docklands. Abandoned, isolated, perfect for an ambush." I pull up the building schematics on the main screen. "Which is exactly why he'll be cautious. He'll send advance security, scan for threats, position his own people before he ever enters the building."
"So we give him what he expects," Jordan says, studying the layout. "Security to avoid, surveillance to evade. Make him feel smart for detecting our presence."
"Exactly. He thinks he's walking into someone else's trap. Really, he's walking into ours." I mark positions on the schematic. "Sawyer's team here and here, visible enough to be detected. Adeyemi's people in concealed positions with clear firing lanes. The 'traitor' will be inside, wired for sound, ready to provide evidence."
"Who's playing the traitor?" Jordan asks.
I look at her. "You are."
The room goes silent. Adam looks alarmed. Sully stops typing. Even Major Adeyemi frowns.
"Absolutely not," Adam protests. "You're the target. You can't be the bait too."
"Actually, it's brilliant," Jordan says, her eyes meeting mine. Understanding the logic even if she doesn't love it. "He wants me dead. If I'm there, offering information, seeming desperate enough to betray my own operation? He won't be able to resist. He'll want to do it personally."
"You'll be wired," I tell the room, needing them to understand this is calculated, not reckless. "Full audio and video. Kevlar vest. Sawyer's team in position. Major Adeyemi's backup. And I'll be inside with you, hidden, close enough to intervene if anything goes wrong."
"You're both insane," Sully mutters, but he's already pulling up the equipment manifest. "But if we're doing this, we do it properly. I want redundant communications, multiple cameras, and a panic button wired to every team member's device."
"Agreed," Major Adeyemi says. She looks at Jordan with professional respect. "You understand what you're risking? If Volkov suspects a trap, if his security is better than we think, if anything goes wrong?—"
"I understand," Jordan interrupts. "But I'm tired of hiding. Tired of waiting for the next attack. If this ends it, it's worth the risk."
The determination in her eyes. The same stubborn courage that makes her throw herself into danger to save strangers. Except this time, she's not alone. This time, she has a team. Has me.
"Then let's end this," I say.
The warehouse is exactly as miserable as the schematics suggested. Damp concrete, broken windows, the smell of river rot and industrial decay mixing with diesel and something older, mustier. The Thames is close enough that water laps against pilings somewhere in the darkness. Cold January wind whistles through gaps in the corrugated metal walls.
Jordan and I arrive an hour before the scheduled meet, giving me time to position myself in a concealed alcove behind a support beam with clear sightlines to the main floor. The position is uncomfortable—concrete pressing into my knees, rifle balanced on a rusted metal bracket—but the angle is perfect.
She's down there now, visible in the moonlight filtering through shattered skylights. The light catches on her dark hair, makes her look smaller than she is. More vulnerable. Pacing nervously, playing the role of a traitor with something to sell. The wire under her jacket transmits clearly—every breath, every footstep echoing in the empty space. The camera hidden in her collar gives us multiple angles.
My heart pounds steady and controlled, but my hands are tight on the rifle. She chose this. She insisted on being the bait, made the tactical argument, and she was right. Partnershipmeans respecting that. Even when every instinct I have screams otherwise.
"Security sweep incoming," Sully reports through my earpiece. "Two operators, ex-military by their movement. They're good."
I watch through the scope as two men enter the warehouse. They move with military precision, checking corners, scanning for threats. One has a handheld scanner—checking for electronic surveillance. The green glow of the device sweeps the space methodically.
My breathing slows. Finger rests beside the trigger, not on it. Not yet. The scope's crosshairs track the nearest operator as he approaches Jordan's position. Twenty meters. Fifteen. Close enough that if he decides she's a threat, I'll have less than a second to respond.
"Jordan, they're scanning," I murmur into my comm, my voice barely a whisper. "Play nervous."
She shifts her weight, runs a hand through her hair. The gesture looks natural, unrehearsed. The picture of someone out of their depth and regretting this meeting. One of the operators says something to her—too low for the wire to catch—and she responds with a shaky nod.
Good girl. Stay in character.
The security team continues their sweep. They're thorough, taking their time. The scanner passes within two meters of my position, and I hold my breath. The alcove's shielding should block their detection, but should isn't certainty. The green glow lingers, sweeps away.
They find Sawyer's team exactly where we want them to. Too obvious to be the real threat. Positioned like amateurs trying to set up an ambush, visible in thermal scans, their communications easy to intercept. The security team calls it in,and their body language shifts. Shoulders dropping, weapons lowering to ready positions instead of active threat positions.
They've found the trap. They think they're in control.
