“Not a chance.” She unbuckles. “Partners, remember? Tactical decisions together.”
Stubborn. Always. It isn’t just personality—it’s armor. Every time she pushes back, it’s another layer keeping the fear from showing.
“Fine.” I pop my door open. “But let me do the talking. Vargas is—particular.”
We move through the shadows, converging at the door. I knock—two sharp raps, a pause, three raps, a pause, one hard thud—a code older than most of the operatives currently serving.
The metal slider on the door scrapes open. A pair of dark, heavy-lidded eyes peers out, framed by wrinkles deep enough to hide coins in.
“Shop’s closed.” The voice is gravel in a cement mixer.
“Open up, old man.”
The eyes widen slightly. “Fuse?”
“In the flesh.”
“Thought you were dead in a ditch in Damascus.”
“Disappointed?”
“Nah. Takes a lot to kill a cockroach.”
Locks tumble—three of them, heavy deadbolts that sound like bank vault mechanisms. The door groans open.
Mateo Vargas stands there, leaning heavily on a cane made of black composite. He looks like he’s aged a decade since I last saw him. His hair is stark white, his face a roadmap of scars, but the eyes are the same—sharp, cynical, scanning the street for threats before landing on Talia.
“Who’s the stray?”
“Partner.”
Vargas snorts, stepping back to let us in. “You don’t have partners. You have liabilities.”
“Former Fed. Currently being hunted by people who want her dead.”
“You brought a Fed to my house?” Vargas freezes, his hand tightening on the cane.
He studies her for a long second—too long—assessing her stance, her eyes, the way she holds herself ready to move. Whatever he sees, it makes him grunt and lock the door behind us.
“Why the masks?”
“Crowd cover,” I say. “Angel Fire concert. Needed anonymity.”
That earns a disbelieving snort.
He lets out a low whistle. “Jesus, Fuse. That’s so 2020. You didn’t disappear—you flagged yourselves.”
I frown. “What the hell does that mean?”
He rubs a hand along his jaw, avoiding my eyes. “Shouldn’t even be talking about this.”
“Vargas.”
He exhales hard. “It’s nothing.”
“Bullshit.” I take a step closer. The edge in my tone cuts through the humming electronics. “You said facial recognition is outdated. Why?”
“It’s just something I worked on a few years back. Military contract. Behavioral targeting algorithms.” He hesitates, thumb tracing the line of his scar.
