TWENTY-THREE
Talia
THE NEXUS
Rain lashesthe floor-to-ceiling glass of the Cerberus War Room, a relentless gray curtain isolating us from the rest of Seattle. Inside, the air is warm, smelling of ozone, expensive coffee, and the unique, kinetic energy of predators at rest.
I stand at the head of the holographic table, smoothing the hem of my sweater. Three days ago, I was a liability shivering in a warehouse in Chicago. Today, I’m the briefing officer.
The team lounges around the table, a tableau of relaxed violence. They’ve shed the tactical gear for civilian clothes—Henleys, flannels, jeans—but the lethality remains. It’s in the way they sit, spines never touching the backs of chairs, eyes tracking every movement in the room.
Torque is balancing a combat knife on the tip of his finger, spinning it with a lazy, hypnotic rhythm. Whisper is in the corner, methodically disassembling and cleaning a scope lens with a microfiber cloth, his movements silent and meditative.Brass is peeling an apple with a blade that looks sharp enough to cut atoms, the skin coming off in one long, perfect ribbon.
And Jackson.
He sits to my right, stiff in the ergonomic mesh chair. His left arm is immobilized in a sling, his side heavily bandaged under a soft plaid flannel shirt that softens his usual jagged edges. He looks battered, gray-faced, and exhausted. The stubble on his jaw is darker, thicker.
He also looks proud. His gaze rests on me, steady and anchoring, ignoring the chaos of his team.
“Stop staring at her, Fuse,” Torque says without looking up from his knife. “You’re creeping her out.”
“I’m ensuring the asset is prepared,” Jackson grumbles, his voice gravelly.
“You’re making heart eyes,” Halo chimes in from his station, where a fortress of monitors surrounds him. He spins his chair around, holding a mug that saysI’M HERE BECAUSE YOU BROKE SOMETHING. “It’s gross. And unprofessional. HR is going to have a field day.”
“We don’t have HR,” Brass points out, slicing a wedge of apple. “We have Ghost.”
“Same thing,” Halo says. “Only scarier.”
Jackson shifts in his seat, and winces as the movement pulls at his stitches.
“Easy, Grandpa,” Torque grins, finally catching the knife and slamming it into the table. It quivers there. “Don’t pop a staple. You’re held together by glue and spite right now.”
“I’m functional.”
“You’re high on painkillers,” Brass corrects. He flicks a piece of apple at Jackson. Jackson catches it with his good hand, reflexes unimpaired. “Eat. You’ve lost blood volume. You look like a vampire with the flu.”
“I hate all of you,” Jackson says, but he eats the apple.
“Love you too, pookie,” Torque winks. He turns his grin on me. “So, Talia. How was the flight? Sorry about the turbulence over the Rockies. I had to dodge a weather system.”
“You didn’t dodge it,” I say, arranging my notes on the console. “You flew directly through a cumulonimbus formation because you wanted to see if the g-force would make Halo throw up.”
The table goes silent for a heartbeat.
Then Torque bursts out laughing. “She’s good. Fuse, she’s good.”
“I did throw up,” Halo mutters. “In my soul.”
“She reads the patterns,” Jackson says, a smug satisfaction in his tone. “I told you.”
“Alright, children.” Ghost’s voice cuts through the room like a cold draft.
He stands at the head of the table, leaning back against the glass wall, a mug of black coffee in his hand. Mason “Ghost” Blackwood radiates the kind of calm authority that makes storms settle down. He doesn’t raise his voice; he just speaks, and the room reorders itself around him.
“Floor’s yours, Singh,” Ghost says.
I tap the console. The holographic display flares to life, projecting a complex, rotating web of data into the air above the table.
