“Sir, I…” I hesitate. “Thank you. For giving me another chance.”
Mank’s expression shifts into something almost paternal. “I’m not giving you anything, Baxter. You earned this. The proposal was solid work—genuinely good. Whoever taught you to write a cover document did an excellent job.”
“That would be you, sir.”
“Yes, well.” He clears his throat. “Don’t let it go to your head, and I won’t let it go to mine. This mission is delicate. Global Dynamix is one of the most powerful corporations on the planet, and Vanguard is their crown jewel. We need to know what they’re really doing with him—whether he’s a genuine threat, whether he can be turned, whether there’s something bigger going on. The Americans won’t share intel, so we’re getting it ourselves.
“There’s something else.” Mank slides a photograph across the desk. It’s grainy, clearly taken from a distance, a dark humanoid figure against the sky. “Our sources suggest Global Dynamix is developing a second enhanced asset. Codename: Paragon. We don’t know if it’s operational yet or how it may differ from Vanguard, but if they’re creating more of these…things, then we need to know about it.”
I pick up the photo and stare at it. Just what we need—another superhero.
“What about Kapoor?” I ask.
Raj Kapoor is…was…the scientist we turned into an asset who was investigating Global Dynamix before he vanished eighteen months ago. His file is one of the ones I spent three months ‘organizing.’ It’s also one of the ones that gave me nightmares.
Mank’s jaw tightens. “Kapoor is a secondary objective. If you can get any information about what happened to him, we want it, but your primary focus is Vanguard. Assess him. Profile him. Get close enough to understand what he really is.” He holds my gaze. “And if he turns out to be as dangerous as some people fear…”
He doesn’t finish.
He doesn’t need to.
Seduce and destroy.
“Understood, sir.”
“Good.” He hands me the file from his desk. It’s heavier than it looks. “Full briefing at fourteen hundred, but I wanted you to see this first. Background on Global Dynamix leadership, Vanguard’s public record, and everything we have on Project Prometheus.”
“Project Prometheus?”
“It’s the program that created him. Or enhanced him, depending on who you believe. Took him from soldier to super soldier to superhero. Though now, we have reason to believe there’s more to the program than meets the eye. A lot more.” His face is grim. “Read it before the meeting and tell me what you think.”
I take the file and stand to leave.
“One more thing.” His voice stops me at the door. “Van Veen didn’t just approve you, Mia. She said she made an exception for you that she won’t make for anyone else.”
That stops me cold. “Why would she do that?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? Either she sees something in you that’s useful to her agenda, or she doesn’t believe you are who you say you are.”
A chill skitters up my spine. “There’s no way she knows my true identity,” I say quietly.
“No, she most likely does not,” he says. “We wouldn’t be doing this if your cover was already blown. But that doesn’t mean we take things at face value. She might think you’re digging for a hit piece, or you’re not a journalist at all and have been hired by their rivals, someplace like Titan Industries, to get the competitive edge. Either way—watch yourself. That woman didn’t get where she is by being careless.”
“Copy that.”
“And Mia?” I’m halfway through the door. “Whatever happened in Minsk—whatever made you hesitate—sort it out. Because where you’re going, hesitation gets people killed. I’d rather not lose another a person to Global Dynamix.”
“You won’t, sir,” I say. “I promise.”
I close the door behind me, the file clutched to my chest. Through the window, I can see the River House across the Thames, all that bulletproof glass glinting in the weak October sun. It’s funny to think that, ultimately, someone in there just decided my fate, and if anything should go wrong, they’ll disavow any knowledge of my actions. They’ll disavow that I was ever a person at all.
Everyone is gathered in the kitchen alcove when I approach: Bayo, Kat, Cal, Fi, even Tabby hovering with a fresh pot of tea. They all look up eagerly.
“Well?” Fi demands, practically vibrating. “Did we get it?”
I look at each of them in turn. My team. My family, in all the ways that count. The people who’ve dragged me out of burning buildings, held the line when everything went sideways, and pretended not to notice when I fell apart after Minsk.
“Start packing,” I say. “We’re going to New York, baby.”
