I climbed the stairs slowly, every sense on high alert.
At the top, a door on the right opened before I could knock.
A man stood in the doorway, wearing what I could only describe as a "casual butler" outfit—pressed slacks, a crisp white shirt, a vest that looked tailored. His posture was military. His eyes were sharp.
"Mr. Ward," he said in a British accent, smooth and practiced. "Welcome. Please, come in."
I stepped inside, cataloging everything.
The man closed the door behind me with the same deliberate care I'd seen in operators who knew how to move through hostile environments without making noise.
"Can I offer you anything?" he asked. "A drink? Something to eat?"
I glanced at him, then at the room. "Is it too early for a real drink?"
His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. "The bar is always open here, sir."
"Whatever's easiest," I said. "On the rocks."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Bourbon, I'd wager."
"Yeah."
He gestured toward a pair of leather chairs positioned near a wood-burning fireplace. "Please, make yourself comfortable. Your drink will be here momentarily."
I waited until he left, then moved to the chair and sat, my hand instinctively checking the pistol tucked into my waistband.The room was impressive—old Paris royalty meets functional American. High ceilings, dark wood paneling, furniture that looked antique but felt solid. A fireplace that actually worked, flames crackling low and steady.
I pulled out my phone to check the time.
No signal.
None.
I frowned, glancing at the screen. Outside, I'd had full bars. Now? Nothing.
What the hell was this place?
I looked around again, taking in the details. The walls were thick. The windows—if there were any—were hidden behind heavy drapes. The air felt controlled, filtered. This wasn't just a safe house.
This was a fortress.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway, and I turned.
Micah walked in, carrying two glasses filled halfway with brown liquid. He moved with the same controlled economy I remembered from the field, his presence filling the room without effort.
"Glad you came," he said.
I stood, meeting his eyes. "I wasn't sure I would."
Micah grunted, handing me one of the glasses. He raised his own. "To new opportunities."
I clinked my glass against his and took a sip.
The bourbon hit my tongue like liquid gold. Smooth. Complex. Better than anything I'd ever tasted.
Micah watched me, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "You like it?"
I took another sip, savoring it. "Yeah. What is it?"
