“I’m not sure yet. When I figure it out, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Danny clears his throat from the doorway. “Cameras are getting restless, boss.”
The moment breaks. Mia steps back, her face neutral again, and I watch her walk toward the door with my hands shoved in my pockets so I don’t do something stupid, like reach for her.
Outside, the crowd surges forward, phones flashing. I can already see the headlines forming:Vanguard’s Mystery Woman. Who Is She?By tomorrow, everyone will have an opinion.
I watch the Meridian lift off with her inside, and I stand on the sidewalk in Carroll Gardens, the October wind cutting through my shirt while strangers film me from across the street, waiting for me to fly off on my own.
Just an interview, I remind myself.
But I’m already counting the hours until I see her again.
CHAPTER 9
MIA
There’ssomething almost meditative about breaking into a building you’re not supposed to be in. It’s like yoga…for people who are sick in the head.
The adrenaline sharpens everything—the distant hum of traffic on the BQE, the smell of rust and rain-damp concrete, the way my breath fogs in the autumn air. My body knows what to do. Muscle memory takes over, and for a few blissful hours, I don’t have to think about milkshakes or hover cars or the way Vanguard’s eyes darkened when he watched me drink through that straw.
Focus, Mia. You’re on the clock.
The Global Dynamix auxiliary facility in Queens isn’t much to look at from the outside—a squat box of grey concrete tucked between a self-storage warehouse and an abandoned meatpacking plant. No signage. No logo. Just a building that wants very badly to be forgotten.
Which is exactly why SOE flagged it. And since part of my mission is to get as much intel on what Global is doing as possible, in addition to what happened to Kapoor, I don’t get tospend my night alone in my hotel room, eating room service and watching bad reality TV.
“You’re coming up on the east perimeter,” Bayo says in my ear, his voice a familiar comfort. The moth earring is cool against my lobe, a tiny weight that means I’m not alone out here. “Two guards on rotation. They’ll pass your position in approximately ninety seconds.”
“Copy.” I press myself flat against the chain-link fence and start counting. I’m wearing black tactical gear Kat had brought from SOE, my hair pulled back, two guns tucked at my back and in my boot (can’t kiss someone from afar).
I’ve done this a hundred times. This is what I do best—not being a journalist, which was always only as a cover, but being a spy.
So why can’t I stop thinking about Vanguard? The way his nostrils flared as his gaze raked over my bare shoulders, the barely imperceptible way his mouth opened as I asked if hebites. The?—
“Seventy seconds,” Bayo says, snapping me out of it. “You still with me?”
Now I am.
“Always.” I watch the guards round the corner—two men in private security uniforms, hands on their belts, faces carrying bored expressions. They’re not expecting trouble. No one ever expects trouble at an auxiliary facility in Queens at two in the morning if there hasn’t been trouble before.
That’s what makes it so easy.
That’s why making trouble can be so much fun.
The moment they pass, I’m up and over the fence, dropping silently onto the cracked asphalt on the other side. The landing sends a jolt through my knees, but I’m already moving, keeping low, hugging the shadows along the building’s eastern wall.
“Service entrance is fifteen meters ahead,” Bayo says. “Keypad lock, four-digit code. I’m running possibilities now, but it might take a minute.”
“I don’t have a minute,” I grumble.
“Then improvise.”
I reach the door and study the keypad. Standard model, nothing fancy. The buttons are worn—some more than others. One, four, seven, and nine show the most use. I run the combinations in my head, factor in the likelihood of lazy security protocols, and punch in 1-9-7-4.
The lock clicks green.
“Show-off,” Bayo mutters.
