Adena stirs as I enter, stretching and yawning as her eyes fix on me.“Room service?”
It’s not what she really wants to know.She wants to know whether I had it out with God last night.I can’t even tell her I did and have peace.I can only hope she sees that.
Instead of reassuring her, I shake my head.“We should go out.I know a place…”
When she looks like she’s going to protest, I pull my phone out of my robe pocket and make it seem like I’m trying to find the address using the browser.“Iforgotthe name of it, something…Si… no…Lis…”
Her back straightens, understanding floods her face.She’s out of bed before I have time to understand the significance of the message on my lock screen.
Hey, call me back when you get a sec.Uncle Mark.
“Uncle Mark” is my handler, Nolan.
He wouldn't reach out unless something was wrong.Something serious.Nolan doesn't call for updates or check-ins.He doesn't call to chat.When Nolan calls, operations are compromised.
My stomach tightens, drops.The possibilities cascade, each one crashing into the next.Cover blown.Someone turned.Adena—her name flagged somewhere, someone finding her, finding me, finding us.
I grip the phone tighter.
If Nolan's calling, we're already behind.Every second counts now.And whatever's coming—whatever threat is heading our way—we need to get ahead of it before it’s too late.
Adena
Jagger doesn’t look at me when I come out of the bedroom.
He’s by the window, half-turned, phone still in his hand even though the screen has gone dark.The city hums below us, distant and constant, and the contrast makes the room feel unnaturally still.He shifts his weight once, then again, like he’s already calculating distances.
I slow without meaning to.
The robe belt is knotted tight, then tightened again.His shoulders are set too rigid, the muscles in his neck pulled taut.This isn’t irritation.This isn’t nerves.It’s decision.
I don’t ask what message just came in.Don’t ask what happened last night when I left him.Don’t even try.I start dressing.
Denim slides over my hips.Boots.Jacket.My hands move on instinct, checking what needs to be checked.Holster secure.My fingers hesitate for half a second longer than they should, then force themselves steady.
“We take a walk,” he says at last.
His voice is calm enough to pass.It doesn’t fool me.He’s rattled.
I nod and shoulder my bag.“Sunlight and caffeine.”
He finally looks at me then.Just long enough to make sure I’m ready.
The hallway is too bright, too reflective.Chrome throws our images back at us in fragments—shoulder, jaw, movement.Elevator bells chime.Laughter drifts up from the lobby, careless and sharp.I keep my gaze forward, tracking reflections instead of faces.
Outside, tourists drift in loose clusters.Traffic hums.The normalcy presses in, almost indecent in how well it fits over what’s happening underneath.
Half a block in, my shoulders tighten.I don’t turn.I don’t have to.The rhythm behind us is wrong—too even, too matched.I catch it in the glass of a storefront: two men, dark jackets, moving with purpose that doesn’t belong to sightseeing.
My pulse kicks hard.Heat flares in my chest.
“I see them,” Jagger says quietly.
I nod once, jaw locked.
We keep our pace.Don’t change direction.Don’t hurry.The crowd thins just enough to make room—and they take it.
One of them steps into our path like he’s been there all along.Loud shirt.Gold chain.Sunglasses that don’t belong to the hour.
