"Neutralize." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You make it sound simple."
"It is simple. Just not easy." I started for the roof access. "Come on. We need to brief the team."
He caught my arm. "We're not done discussing this."
"Yes, we are." I looked at where his fingers circled my wrist—gentle but firm, restraint disguised as concern. "Unless you'replanning to physically stop me? Chain me up for my own good? That sounds familiar."
He released me like I'd burned him. "That's not fair."
"No, it's not." I rubbed my wrist though it didn't hurt. "But neither is asking me to sit back while women suffer because the rescue might be dangerous. I'm not made of glass, Nathan."
"I know that."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're trying to protect me from my own choices." I moved closer, into his space. "I thought you were different. Thought you understood that keeping me safe and keeping me caged aren't the same thing."
"They're not—" He stopped, ran both hands through his hair. "Fuck. You're right. I know you're right. But the thought of you in there, with those people..."
"I've been with worse people." I touched his face, feeling stubble and tension. "I survived Gabriel fucking Mire. I can survive one night playing rabbit."
"Playing," he repeated. "Like it's a game."
"It is a game. Just one with very real stakes." I dropped my hand. "I'm doing this, Nathan. With or without your support. But I'd rather have it with."
We stared at each other, wills clashing like swords in the dark. Finally, his shoulders dropped.
"What do you need from me?"
"Trust," I said simply. "Trust that I know my limits. Trust that I'll signal if I'm in real danger. Trust that I'm not the same broken girl."
"You were never broken," he said quietly.
"No. But I was caged. There's a difference." I headed for the stairs again. "Come on. We have planning to do."
The briefing was a exercise in controlled chaos. Nathan's FBI contacts ranged from skeptical to outright hostile aboutusing a civilian asset. I sat through their objections, their alternatives, their thinly veiled implications that I was too damaged to be reliable.
"She has a point about the panic room," Michael finally said. He was younger than the others, less invested in protocol. "Our usual undercovers won't pass for trafficking victims."
"We could use a female agent," Commander Phillips suggested.
"Who?" I asked. "Davidson's six months pregnant. Cathy's in deep cover in LA. Maxine broke her leg last week." I'd done my homework on the ride over. "Unless you have agents I don't know about?"
Phillips's silence was answer enough.
"The tracker's state of the art," Nathan said, surprising me with his support. "GPS accurate to three feet, with vital monitoring. Any spike in heart rate or drop in body temp, we'll know."
"And if they scan for bugs?" Phillips demanded.
"It's organic polymer," I answered. "Reads like scar tissue on scanners. I've used similar tech before."
That was a lie. But they didn't need to know that Gabriel's trackers had been much more primitive. Or that I'd learned to dig them out with kitchen knives.
"She'll need a handler," Phillips said finally. "Someone on comms—"
"Me," Nathan said.
"You're too emotionally involved."
"Which is why I'll be motivated to keep her safe." His tone brooked no argument. "She's my asset. I brought her in. I'll handle her."
