Cal is leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen alcove, mug in hand, dark curls falling artfully over his forehead in a way that suggests he spent longer styling them than he’d ever admit. Callum Reed—our second-best field operative, though he’d argue the ranking—has the sort of face that belongs on a BBC period drama, all cheekbones and brooding eyes and sharp jawline. He’s wearing a rumpled Oxford shirt rolled to the elbows, and there’s a fading scar on his forearm I try not to look at.
He got that scar pulling me out of a drop gone wrong in Tehran. One of the targets had gotten close with a knife before Cal put him down. He never mentions it, and I never got a chance to thank him properly.
There’s a lot Cal and I don’t mention to each other.
“Morning, Cal,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Still haven’t figured out how the toaster works, I see. You and Bayo should team up.”
“And he’d agree the toaster is a war criminal that should be tried at The Hague.” He takes a sip of his coffee, eyes never leaving mine over the rim. “So, tell me all about it. Rubbingelbows with superheroes and celebs, writing love letters to evil corporations that hastened the demise of the western world.”
“It was a proposal, not a love letter.”
“Same thing when you’re trying to seduce someone into letting you close.”
There’s an edge to his voice that I know has nothing to do with Vanguard.
Cal and I have history. A few years ago, after a particularly brutal op in Marrakech, he told me he loved me. Properly, painfully, the kind of confession that hangs in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled. We’d been drinking—him more than me, since alcohol barely affects me—and he’d looked at me with those dark eyes and said,I know you can’t—I know your condition. I don’t care. We could figure it out. I just want to be with you.
I’d turned him down as gently as I could, which wasn’t very gentle at all, because my god, sometimes, a man can’t take a hint.
The truth is, even if I could kiss him without killing him, I’m not sure I’d let myself. Intimacy requires trust, and trust requires vulnerability, and vulnerability gets people killed in our line of work. I’ve spent fifteen years building walls to keep everyone at arm’s length—literally, in my case—and the thought of letting someone past them terrifies me more than any FSB officer with a gun aimed at my head.
Cal took it well on the surface. We’re still friends, still partners when the mission calls for it, still capable of the easy banter that comes from trusting someone with your life. But sometimes, I catch him looking at me like he’s still waiting for me to change my mind.
I won’t. I can’t.
And I hate that I hurt him.
That said, it’s better than killing him.
“Noted,” I say, sliding past him toward my sad little desk-that-isn’t-a-desk. “When I need seduction advice from a man whose flirting technique was lifted directly from a Brontë novel, I’ll let you know. Until then, try not to brood so hard, you sprain something.”
“Rude,” he calls after me.
I settle onto my stool (I refuse to call it a chair, since chairs have backs and this is basically a wooden mushroom held together by duct tape) and Bayo looks up from his workstation.
His setup is the one genuinely impressive thing in our whole office: three curved monitors, a mechanical keyboard that makes the most pleasing clacking sounds, and enough blinking lights to guide a plane in for landing. Daniel Babatunde—Bayo to everyone he considers a friend—is our cyber operations specialist, on loan from Government Communications Headquarters and permanently embedded with us because he’s too valuable to give back. He’s built like a rugby player gone slightly soft, with close-cropped hair and a gregarious face that’s quick to smile, though when he’s serious, he’sserious.
“Anything?” I ask, not specifying what.
He shakes his head. “Not yet, Miss Mia. But Van Veen’s people are thorough. Could take a few days to vet everything. Thank God your journalism background is legit.”
“Yeah, well, the suspense is killing me,” I groan.
“Because you’re the least patient person in this room. But pushing won’t help. Either they bite or they don’t.”
“Helpful, Bayo. Very Zen.”
“I do what I can.” His cheeky grin flashes white against his dark skin.
“Mia.”
We both look up. Katarina Morozov is standing in the doorway to Mank’s office, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Kat is my mentor, my trainer, and—depending on the day—my harshest critic. Former FSB, she defected during the tensions with Russia and brought a lifetime’s worth of tradecraft with her. She’s slight and pale, with dark hair cropped close to her skull and the kind of face that disappears into a crowd. Forgettable by design. Memorable only to those who’ve seen what she can do with a garrote and thirty seconds of privacy.
She taught me everything I know about surveillance, dead drops, asset handling, how to vanish into a city and become someone else entirely. How to live as a NOC, as someone who doesn’t exist, and how to make peace with being a ghost.
She won’t admit it, but she also hasn’t forgiven me for Minsk, and I’m not sure she ever will. I was her protégé, and I let her down in a spectacular way.
