I blink the gray away. Brass is sitting in a chair next to the bed, reading a tactical report on a tablet. He doesn’t look worried. He looks bored.
“You’re alive,” he says, not looking up. “Try not to undo the five hours of surgery it took to keep you that way.”
“Talia.” The name comes out as a croak. My throat feels like I swallowed broken glass.
“She’s fine.”
“Location.”
“Penthouse. Guest suite. Ghost secured the perimeter. We’re locked down tighter than the Pentagon.” Brass finally looks at me. “Which, considering who you pissed off, is necessary.”
I push against the mattress, fighting the gravity of the drugs in my system. “I need to see her.”
“She’s sleeping, Fuse. Let her rest.”
“I need—eyes on.”
It’s not rational. It’s primal. The last thing I remember is the van. The blood on her hands. The terror in her eyes. I need to verify she’s alive.
“You’re a stubborn son of a bitch.” Brass sighs, standing.
“Help me up.”
“Ghost gave orders. Bed rest.”
“Ghost isn’t here.” I grit my teeth, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The room tilts. The floor looks miles away. “Help me, or I crawl.”
Brass studies me for a second, then shakes his head. He grabs my arm—the good one—and hauls me upright.
The pain hits like a white-hot spike driving through my side. I lock my knees, forcing the air in and out of my lungs until the edges of my vision clear.
“You’re going to bleed through those stitches,” Brass mutters, taking my weight. “Doc Summers is going to bepissed.”
“Where is Talia?”
“Main room. North window. She hasn’t moved in four hours.”
We move slowly. Every step is a negotiation with agony. Brass acts as a crutch, guiding me through the hallway. The penthouse is silent, the thick carpets swallowing our footsteps.
We reach the end of the hall. The main living area opens up—a sprawling space of glass and steel, overlooking the Seattle skyline.
She’s there.
She sits in a high-backed leather chair facing the window, knees pulled to her chest, wrapped in an oversized Cerberus hoodie that swallows her frame. A laptop sits closed on the table beside her. She isn’t working. She isn’t analyzing.
She’s just watching the city burn with lights.
“I got it from here,” I whisper to Brass.
“You fall; I’m leaving you on the floor.” Brass releases me, stepping back into the shadows of the hallway.
I take a breath. I steady myself against the wall.
“Talia.”
She spins. The motion is fast, jerky—a threat response. Her hand goes to her waistband before she registers who it is.
Her eyes widen. “Jackson?”
