Except someone had.
The phone stopped buzzing.
Five seconds later, it started again.
I stared at it, mind racing through possibilities. FSB. CIA. Mossad. Some private outfit. Someone with resources. Someone who could bypass my security without leaving a trace.
Someone who wanted me to answer.
I picked up the phone, keeping my back to the wall, away from the window.
"Yeah," I said.
The voice that came through was low. Gravelly. The kind of voice that belonged to a man who'd seen things and done worse. A man like me.
"Are you done saving the world from FBI turncoats, at least, for tonight?"
I froze.
Every muscle in my body locked tight. My finger twitched on the gun’s trigger.
"Who the fuck is this?" I said, voice flat and cold.
A pause. Then: "Someone who's impressed."
"That's not an answer."
"You'll find out soon enough," the voice said. "There's a plane waiting to bring you back to the States."
"What is this about?"
Another pause. Longer this time. When the voice spoke again, it carried weight. Intent.
"How would you like to keep doing what you're doing, only makemoreof a difference?"
My mind spun. Cataloging. Analyzing. Searching for the angle.
Who had the access? The know-how? The balls to breach my flat without tripping a single alarm, to track my movements, to know about Draconi, about Benson, about missions that weren't on any official record?
Government. Had to be. But which one? And why now?
Or maybe it wasn't government. Maybe it was something else. Private. Dangerous. The kind of offer that came with strings made of barbed wire.
I gave very few fucks either way.
If it was the Feds, they'd catch up with me eventually. Might as well face the fire now. If it was a legitimate offer—something that let me keep doing what I was good at, only with better support, better intel, better results—then I'd listen.
And if it was something else? Some player on the wrong side of the moral equation trying to recruit me for the wrong reasons?
I'd see to that, too.
"Okay," I said. "Where's the plane? Where am I going?"
"I'll text you the location of the airfield," the voice said. "And I'll be waiting in Charleston to meet you in person."
The call ended.
I stood there, Glock still in hand, phone still pressed to my ear, staring at the dark screen.
