“Everything?” I repeat.
“There are no secrets, Nate. You know this.”
Bullshit.
“You can be an open book,” she adds. “Let her see the real you. Talk about your past. Let her see inside your life. The quicker you do that, the sooner she’ll be on her way.”
“She was abrasive,” I point out. “Rude, even.”
I don’t need to mention that her being rude turned me on a little.
“Rude is fine,” she says. “I know you have nothing to hide.”
“And what about you?” I ask. “I know you have plenty.”
The projection of her raises her chin. “She won’t get very far with Global Dynamix. We’ll feed her exactly what she needs to see, along with some admitted mistakes so she can feel she got a scoop. A little good PR goes a long way for us. We aren’t out of the woods yet with this country. The polls say most people still distrust us.”
I wish she wouldn’t lump me into the ‘us.’ I only became Vanguard after President Vasquez clawed us out of the last decade.
“Got it,” I say, ready to switch off the call.
“Oh, and Nate?” she says quickly. “Even though you should be honest with her, do not expect her to be honest with you. I’m still not sure what her motives are.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, is she a journalist getting the best story? Is she a journalist who is going to write a hit piece no matter what?” She waits a beat. “Or is she even a journalist at all?”
“What else would she be?”
She chuckles softly. “Oh, sweet summer child. That’s the saying, isn’t it? Never lose your naivete. You know how many competitors we have looking for the inside scoop and then some. To weaponize our tech. Be yourself but watch her closely. Anything odd, you report it to me right away. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s actually working for a rival like Titan or even Chimera in hopes of stealing ideas.”
“Will do,” I say and then end the call before she can say more, her image fizzling into the air.
I exhale, pour myself another useless drink, and step out of my suit, ready to put this day to bed.
Wondering what tomorrow might bring.
Wondering if I’ll dream of her again.
CHAPTER 6
MIA
The last timeI saw New York, it was on fire.
Not literally, though there were fires too, in those days—burning cars, burning buildings, burning flags. But it was the other kind of fire I remember most: the feverish fear in people’s eyes, the way the city seemed to vibrate with barely contained violence. That was 2034. I was twenty-three, barely three years into my career, and MI6 had sent me to extract a British asset embedded in what was left of the State Department. The mission was supposed to be simple—a quiet handoff at a hotel on the Upper West Side, a drive to a private airfield in Jersey, wheels up before anyone noticed he was gone.
Instead, I spent four days dodging military checkpoints and surveillance drones, watching soldiers in American uniforms treat American citizens like enemy combatants. I killed two DHS agents to get us out, one with my hands, one with my lips. The asset made it home. I made it home. But I left something behind in that burning city—some last shred of naivety about what governments are capable of when they stop pretending to serve their people.
That was six years ago.
A different America.
A different me.
Now, as the plane descends through a gauze of autumn clouds, I press my forehead to the window and try to reconcile what I’m seeing with what I remember.
New York in 2040 is a city of contradictions. From the air, it looks almost normal—the familiar silhouette of Manhattan rising from the water, the Statue of Liberty still bravely holding her torch, the grid of streets and avenues I studied on maps before I ever set foot here. The city that never sleeps, never weeps.
