My hands tremble as I fumble for my phone and force myself to open the camera and hover over the code. The screen blinks, and a government web page pops up. There, in front of me, is a mile-long list of personal details—under a different name; his real name, I guess—with the CIA symbol.
Niles leans in. “We’ll need to move fast. You’ve got to come with us, where we can keep you safe.” His words creep through me, unsettling—and yet they make a twisted kind of sense. He’s CIA, after all. He’s clearly had me under surveillance.
I think of that poor man hanging from shackles—how I watched him die like his murder was a fun show at SeaWorld.
I think of Nonna’s face after she died—that rictus rage. All those warnings from her that I chose to ignore. The ones I couldn’t understand.
Her last word to me echoes in my head:sick.
I think of all the times in my life I’ve chosen to turn the other cheek and ignore the obvious.
I stare into Niles’s eyes, my mind spinning too fast, and let him hold me upright. Tonight, Niles von Niptuck suddenly feels like the only person I can trust.
Forty-Seven
Axe
“He’s ten minutes late,” I mutter, eyes glued to the clock on my phone. I’m pacing the Quarry like a caged beast, trying not to let my irritation spill over. The bar’s got that hazy cocktail-hour light, barely enough to be able to see without getting too cozy, and the hum of the gala next door is making me even more restless. Strike sits across from me, calm as a bloody cucumber, tapping his fingers on the table.
I can feel the impatience grinding in my chest. This was supposed to be quick—a meeting, a handshake, and back to the party.
Strike doesn’t flinch. “He’ll show. Or he won’t. Don’t let it get to you.”
Easy for him to say. I open my mouth to fire back when my phone buzzes in my hand. I glance down, expecting a message from Niles.
But it’s nothing like that.
It’s a notification for a bid on the piece of jewelry I contributed to Turning Point. I frown at my phone, confused. The antique MacKenzie brooch, the one with the family coat of arms that I donated just to be rid of it, got a bid for fifty grand at the auction?
My body prickles with unease. Something doesn’t feel right.
“What’s going on?” Strike asks, glancing up.
“Donation,” I mutter, scowling at the screen. I shake my head, trying to make sense of it—when my phone pings again.
This time, it’s an email. My guts roil the second I see the message. It’s from von Graf.
Subject: Package Received
I’ve picked up what I needed from Project Gemini. No further meeting required.
Best regards,
N.
I stare at the words, feeling like I just took an ice plunge. “Package received?” I repeat, like the words might explain themselves.
My mind races, the realization sinking in fast.
Fuck. He’s not coming. Never was.
My gut twists hard, that sixth sense I’ve learned never to ignore screaming at me. He needed to sideline us to pick up what he wanted.
The only thing he ever wanted.
Gemini.
Josie.
