And,fuck.
The voice comes from behind me. I turn slowly, hands raised, and find myself facing a security guard I didn’t account for, one who’s young and nervous, a shaky hand on his holstered weapon.
“This is a restricted area,” he says, voice cracking slightly. “How did you get in here?”
I could try to talk my way out, spin a story about being lost, about looking for a bathroom, about any number of plausible lies. But I look like someone who is up to no good, and he’s already reaching for his radio. Once he calls it in, the whole building will go on alert, and it will be me against them.
So, I don’t talk.
I move.
I take advantage of his nervousness, and in three swift steps, I close the distance between us. My hand catches his wrist before he can draw his weapon, twisting sharply. He yelps, off-balance, and I use his momentum against him, throwing my hip so it sends him crashing to the floor. His head bounces off the concrete with a sound that makes me wince.
Ouch.
He doesn’t get up.
“Mia?” Bayo’s voice is sharp. “What happened?”
“Just a hiccup.” I check the guard’s pulse—steady, if a bit slow. He’ll have a bloody headache in the morning, but he’ll live. “He’ll be out for a while. I need to move.”
I’m through the service entrance and over the fence before anyone else can respond. The night swallows me whole, and I don’t stop running until I’m three blocks away, pressed against the side of a bodega with my breath coming in ragged gasps. I’m out of practice, and my lungs are punishing me for it.
“You’re clear,” Bayo says. “No pursuit. Nice work.”
“Tell that to my heart rate.”
I close my eyes, letting the adrenaline ebb. The data siphon is a solid weight in my pocket. Project Prometheus. Whatever Kapoor found, whatever got him killed—I’m one step closer to finding it too.
And somewhere across the river, Vanguard is sleeping in his penthouse, dreaming whatever dreams a superhero dreams,completely unaware the woman he shared a milkshake with just broke into one of his employer’s facilities.
Let the games begin.
CHAPTER 10
VANGUARD
Global Dynamix has transformedthe plaza outside their Midtown headquarters into a spectacle, from giant holographic displays cycling through footage of my greatest hits to merchandise booths hawking everything from action figures to branded protein powder. A crowd of thousands is pressed against barricades, their phones raised like offerings to a god they’ve never met.
Iloathethese events. The performance of it all. The careful choreography of heroism reduced to a marketing opportunity. It’s a circus at heart, at best.
And today’s circus has a new act. Step right up folks, Vanguard is old news now. Introducing, Paragon—Global Dynamix’s worst-kept secret. I’ve heard the rumors for months now, caught fragments of conversation that went quiet when I entered rooms, seen requisition orders for equipment that wasn’t meant for me. Not to mention, Julia’s been cagey whenever I’ve asked, deflecting with corporate-speak about ‘expanding the program’ and ‘meeting future demand.’ I’ve never actually seen Paragon, never been in the same room. Forsomething that’s supposed to be my partner, if not colleague, they’ve kept us remarkably separate.
Until today.
I try and push that out of my head, my thoughts naturally drifting to Mia.
I spotted her the moment I landed on the main stage—a flash of dark hair in the press section, that leather jacket she seems to live in with her beat-up purse, her face tilted up toward me with an odd expression, like she can’t quite figure out who I am today. She’s got a press badge clipped to her lapel, a tablet in her hand like the dutiful journalist she is, but when our eyes meet across the sea of people, something electric passes between us.
It’s undeniable.
She doesn’t wave or smile or acknowledge me in any way. She just holds my gaze for a beat too long before looking away, which tells me she feels it too.
And suddenly, this isn’t just another showcase.
It’s a performance.
From me to her.
