First Victor. Now Morrison. Two bodies.
That’s not cleanup. It’s a message.
If they got to Morrison, then they have to know about me.
My fingers find the business card. Ten digits in black ink that suddenly feel like the only lifeline in an ocean of threats.
I dial before fear can paralyze me.
“Cerberus.” Male voice, calm and professional. No accent, no identifying characteristics.
“This is Talia Singh. James Morrison gave me this number.” My voice remains steady despite adrenaline flooding every cell. “He’s dead.”
Keys clicking in the background. “Status and location?”
“Chicago, North Side. Fifth-floor apartment.” I move to the window, keeping to the shadows. “Morrison was murdered because of what I gave him. I have evidence they’ll kill for.”
“Understood. Is your current location secure?”
“One entrance, fire escape outside the bedroom window.” My fingers trace the window lock. “Neighbors on both sides, family above, elderly couple below.”
“Lock your doors. Stay away from windows. Our operative is four hours out.”
“Four—” The word sticks in my throat.
“Minimum. Do you have a weapon?”
“Kitchen knives.”
“Find one. Keep your phone charged and with you. We’ll use it to track your position.”
“Track me?”
“In case you have to run. For now, stay put. The operative will text a code phrase when they arrive: ‘Statistical probability.’ You’ll respond with ‘Acceptable margins.’ Clear?”
“Clear.”
“Four hours. Stay alive.”
The line goes dead.
I pocket my phone. My fingers tremble despite my attempt at control. A kitchen knife—eight-inch chef’s knife, sharp enough to matter—fits in my hand like it belongs there. The weight is wrong. The balance unfamiliar. But the edge catches the light and promises violence if necessary.
Every creak in the building becomes footsteps on stairs. Every gust of wind sounds like the fire escape groaning under its weight. The clock on my phone counts down.
Four hours to outlast whoever sent that SUV. Four hours to survive what Morrison couldn’t.
My pulse hammers against my ribs, trying to escape the cage of my chest. The apartment feels too quiet, too exposed.
I move to the living room, putting my back against the wall where I can monitor both the front door and the hallway to the bedroom. The knife rests across my lap. Nathan’s boxes provide cover if I need to duck behind them. The cardboard smells faintly of his cologne—chemical sweetness mixed with something sharper underneath.
Four hours.
The city sounds filter through the windows—sirens, car horns, a dog barking. Normal sounds of life continuing while mine hangs by probability calculations and a stranger’s arrival time.
I grip the knife until my knuckles turn white. And I wait.
TWO
