She’s in for disappointment.
My job is to keep her alive, not to believe her. Trust is for people who haven’t learned better.
I learned in Syria. Seven teammates paid for my education in blood because I listened to the intel instead of my gut.
I won’t make that mistake again.
THREE
Talia
STATISTICAL PROBABILITYOF SURVIVAL
The kitchen kniferests across my thighs; eight inches of German steel that’s supposed to make me feel safe.
For the first hour, I huddle behind Nathan’s boxes, back pressed against the wall where I can monitor both the front door and the hallway. Every sound in the building makes my heart stutter. Mrs. Patterson’s television murmurs through the walls—some crime drama with dramatic music and shouted dialogue. Mr. Delgado’s heavy footsteps echo on the stairs as he leaves for his night shift at the hospital. Normal sounds that should be comforting. Instead, they feel like threats closing in.
My phone shows 11:47 PM. Almost three and a half hours since I called Cerberus. Their operative should arrive soon.
Should.
The knife handle grows slick with sweat. My legs cramp from staying in one position too long, muscles screaming for movement. One USB drive is tucked in my bra, warm against my skin, slightly damp. Victor’s original is hidden in my sock.Unnecessary with several versions uploaded to servers, but the duplicate physical copy provides some form of relief. Seventy-three deaths compressed into silicon and plastic.
I can’t stay frozen forever.
Moving carefully, silently, I unfold from my hiding spot. My laptop waits on the kitchen counter where I left it. The need to understand what Victor died for overwhelms the need to hide.
The files bloom across my screen—seventy-three deaths documented in meticulous detail. Medical records. Falsified trial data. Internal emails discussing “acceptable losses” as if they’re talking about quarterly earnings rather than human lives. The pattern spreads across five pharmaceutical companies, all subsidiaries of Nexus Holdings.
Morrison died for this. Victor died for this.
The statistical probability that I’ll survive the night is decreasing by the minute.
My fingers fly across keys, uploading encrypted backups to servers in three countries. The progress bar crawls—67%, 74%, 81%—
The doorknob turns.
No warning. No footsteps in the hall. Just the soft scrape of metal on metal as someone tests the lock.
The deadbolt disengages with a whisper.
Three men flow into my apartment like oil spreading across water—silent, inevitable, deadly. Black tactical gear absorbs the kitchen light. Suppressors already threaded onto their weapons. They move in as one, overlapping coverage, no blind spots.
My hand finds the knife.
I throw it.
The blade whistles past the lead man’s ear, embedding into the wall with a solid thunk. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Impressive reflexes, Ms. Singh.” His voice is cultured, amused. The kind of voice that belongs at charity galas, not home invasions. “Though your aim needs work.”
My hand finds a second knife from the block. This one I keep, backing deeper into the kitchen. My breath comes too fast, too shallow.
“We’re here for a simple exchange.” He takes a measured step forward, his partners fanning out to cut off angles. “You have something that belongs to our employers.”
Seventy-three dead people. Falsified data. Premeditated murder.
Words crowd my throat. Won’t emerge. They never do when fear takes over. My throat constricts, a physical lock turning in my larynx.
