She moved with purpose. Calm. Head up. No hesitation.
That wasn’t panic.
That was someone trained to walk into danger without making noise.
“Zoom,” I said.
The image sharpened.
She was bundled in a dark jacket, hair pulled back tight, posture straight despite the weapons surrounding her. No restraints until the very last second. That alone told me she hadn’t been treated like cargo.
She’d been handled like an asset.
My jaw tightened.
“Pull the manifest again,” I said. “Unredacted.”
Russ frowned. “Already did. It’s thin.”
“Not thin enough.”
Boone typed, overriding clearance I technically didn’t have anymore—but some habits don’t die. A new line populated near the bottom of the screen.
Designation:Civilian Consultant
Clearance:Black-tier
Escort:Delta-authorized
Name:Fallon, S.
My chest went tight.
Not Raine.
Never Raine.
“She’s not combat,” Russ said slowly. “No weapons logged.”
“No,” I murmured. “But she’s protected.”
I stared at the name.
Fallon.
Scout.
The memory surfaced uninvited.
A woman standing at the back of a briefing room months ago. No uniform. No rank insignia. Just a quiet presence andeyes that missed nothing. She’d spoken once—only once—but when she did, the room had gone dead silent.
Because she’d known things she shouldn’t have.
“Scout Fallon,” I said aloud.
Boone looked up sharply. “You know her?”
“I know of her,” I corrected. “Neuro-trauma. Post-captivity cognition. Psychological warfare recovery. Raine’s friend.”
