CHAPTER 1
MIA
LONDON, UK – OCTOBER 2040
The mission was simple—killthe world’s first superhero.
Okay, well, maybe it wasn’t quitesimple, and killing him wasn’t the main objective, and the term ‘superhero’ was still up for debate when it came to Vanguard, but I still had my directions to do so if absolutely necessary.
Which, frankly, gave the job a touch of much needed novelty, something sorely missing in the spy business these days. Being a trained assassin for a black ops offshoot of MI6 could feel awfully heavy at times.
Tonight, after months of training, building up our special team, and laying all the groundwork, the plan was ready to be put into action.
Iwas ready to be put into action.
“Nervous?” Bayo’s smooth Yoruban accent says deep inside my head.
“Not even a little,” I tell him as I stare at myself in the restroom mirror, wiping excess lipstick away from the edges of my mouth.
“Liar,” he says. “BP is 165 over 90. Take a moment to do your breathing exercises.”
I grumble in response, “Yes,Dad.”
He chuckles. “You better stop calling me that, or I might think you have daddy issues.”
I grunt. Having Bayo in my head is both a comfort and annoyance. On one hand, I’m never truly alone, thanks to the device constantly sending and receiving from my left earring, my namesake moth in gold with a tiny diamond in the center. The only way to sever our connection is to remove it entirely, and I’d been instructed not to do that at any point in this mission tonight.
Which is what can get annoying. The last thing I need is for Bayo to hear me on the toilet. Let’s just say we’ve grown really close over the last few years.
Then again, when someone broke down the door to said toilet because my cover had been blown, I was fucking glad hewasin my ear.
“Grab a glass of champagne,” he says, watching everything from his hacking of the gala’s security footage. “There’s a waiter approaching you from the left. Use it to cover your mouth.”
I look over to see the waiter and smoothly grab a glass from the gilded tray. “Okay. Now what? Do you see Vanguard or his handlers?”
While I wait for him to answer, I scan the room. Tonight’s event is a gala put on by Prince George for one of his numerous charities, and the crowd is a mix of London socialites, celebrities, politicians, and anyone who cares more about social climbing and being seen than actually contributing to society. The venue is the lavish and ornate Victoria and Albert Museum, and there are gowns and jewels in all directions, competing with the art on the walls.
“He’s in the courtyard with the Prime Minister,” Bayo tells me. “Other side of the reflecting pool.”
“Copy that,” I whisper behind the glass and start walking down the hall. The Raphael court is dim and hushed, tall, midnight-blue walls stretching toward triple-height ceilings, seven enormous Renaissance paintings in their gold frames dwarfing the party goers who saunter past. Everyone’s tones are reverent and low, and I can’t help but focus on the two security guards stationed by the exit, hands clasped at their fronts. I also notice one of the waiters, wide-shouldered with graceful movements, his eyes carefully taking in the scene—not a waiter at all, but another security detail undercover. It’s standard to have this level of coverage when it comes to the Prime Minister and royal family, but something tells me there’s even more now thanks to Vanguard’s appearance.
With him on my mind, I exit the hall and step out into the courtyard. Immediately, I’m met with a cool blast of early autumn air, my ears filled with the sounds of water fountains and laughter and classical music from a violinist stationed amidst the potted lemon trees. I’m much more exposed like this out in the open, and I notice every head that turns my way. I would blame it on the black sequined dress I’m wearing—probably a little much for the event, but there’s always the chance someone is looking at me because theyknowme.
And not in the way I’d like.
“You’re doing good,” Bayo says in my ear. “Like riding a bicycle, right? We got this.”
We got this.It feels good to hear him say that. I’d been relegated to my desk for the last three months after Operation Black Ice went tits up. This mission with Vanguard is my first one back, and I’ve got more than enough to prove.
“Thanks,” I whisper as I pause by a tall table and swallow back more champagne. I’m getting appreciative looks from the men, some of them dignitaries, one I think a famous theater actor, and some of the women are either giving me the sneeringonce-over or meeting my eye with a smile, the kind that means conversations I don’t have time to get sucked into.
Then, I see him.
Across the reflecting pool, in conversation with the Prime Minister, is none other than Vanguard himself. The last few years, while he’s become America’s darling, I’ve seen that damn face every single day, in the holographic news reports that scroll across buses, in ads that pop up on my phone, on social media networks, and in the classified documents of counterintelligence meetings. He’s become the symbol for a new America, someone who represents hope and picking up the pieces after the Dark Decade.
And yet, as I stare at him, I’m hit by two things. One is that it doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen his face—I’m still starstruck to see him in person. The man is larger than life, larger than a god in many ways. He’s at least a foot taller than me, his shoulders broad and wide, a solid frame that can withstand any storm. When Global Dynamix unveiled him as their first super soldier, an ordinary human enhanced by genetic engineering, he had a clean shaven face that showed off his strong jaw and cheekbones and these dimples that flashed when he smiled. Very all-American.
Now, his dark hair is a little longer, and he sports scruffy facial hair that often morphs into a full-on beard (cue the social media darlings calling him ‘Daddy Vanguard’), making him seem older and more respectable. No matter how you spin it, though, the man is absolutely, infuriatingly gorgeous.
