“Remember the rules,” he says, voice low enough that I have to lean in to hear it. “You don’t improvise. You don’t negotiate. You don’t try to be clever. You let me handle Damien unless I tell you otherwise. You listen to Ash. You stay on Wraith’s line of sight. If anything goes wrong—”
“I run,” I say.
His mouth curves, but only a fraction. “Good girl.”
Heat pulls low in my stomach, sharp and immediate. I hate that he does that to me in front of everyone. That’s a lie… Ilovethat he does that to me in front of them.
We load into two cars, because cars mean inconspicuousness.
Saint takes point in one with Vale. Caelum, Wraith, Ash, and me in the other. It’s raining — London gray, steady and fine, not dramatic, the kind that turns the streets slick and reflective. Canary Wharf rises ahead of us in cold glass and clean money.
I know the cover story for this area. I’ve run recon in this part of the city before, just not like this. Not withthem. Not with the understanding that if I’m recognized this time, it’s truly over.
The building is corporate on paper. Quiet lobby. Polished floors. Clean lines. High ceilings with minimalist industrial lighting. It smells like expensive toner and coffee and false normalcy.
Another Syndicate shell.
You learn to spot them like you learn to spot cops in plain clothes. There’s always something that doesn’t match. Here, it’s the way two guys by the elevators wear suits that fit but shoes that don’t — hard soles, reinforced. The way the woman at reception smiles too brightly at us and too tensely at everyone else. The way the cameras don’t sweep like they should. They sit. Meaning someone else is watching them manually.
The earpiece in my right ear murmurs once. Ash’s voice, “You’re clear. Two on lobby. One in the hall behind reception.That third one’s got a tell — favors his left leg. He’ll be slow if it goes bad.”
Wraith’s hand ghosts the small of my back like a brand. “With me.”
I don’t know if anyone not looking would notice we’re moving as a unit. Rook takes lead with the comfortable arrogance of someone who belongs in any room he decides belongs to him. Wraith shades me half a step behind and to the side, broad body a shield without looking like a shield.
I keep my chin up, my stride even. I keep my face calm. You’re supposed to look like you expect to be where you are. The most dangerous thing in a room like this is the person who looks like they’re waiting to be challenged.
We take the lift up three floors. The doors open to a hallway lined in glass offices. Frosted partitions. Conference rooms. More quiet than it should be. Ash murmurs in my ear, “We’re good. Damien’s already here.”
My heart kicks in my chest. Rook doesn’t look back, but he says, casually, “Smile, Red.”
I lift my chin, and we walk into the conference room like we’re late to a meeting. Damien is there.
Time does something strange.
He looks almost exactly the same. That’s the worst part. Same salt-and-steel hair, clipped close. Same tailored suit — navy, perfect, forgettable if you don’t know what you’re looking at. Same mouth. Same careful eyes that never gave too much away in debriefs, just enough to keep you loyal. He’s sitting at the head of the table with three men I don’t recognize, all of them letting him have the center of gravity.
He doesn’t see me at first.
He glances up — first at Rook, then at Wraith, then at the door behind us like he’s counting bodies.
Then at me. He freezes. It’s the smallest thing. A fraction of a second. A half-blink, really. But I see it.
Shock. Followed instantly — instantly — by calculation.
Not grief. Not relief. Not oh, thank God. Not where have you been.
He goes straight to “how did she break my asset chain and how do I fix it.”
My stomach goes cold. There it fucking is. There’s the answer we came for. Rook sets a hand on the back of one of the empty chairs and leans, casual, a picture of polite interest. “Damien.”
Damien recovers so smoothly that anyone who didn’t watch that flicker would miss it. He smiles. Stands. Extends a hand. “Caelum,” he says. Warm. Pleasant. A tone I’ve heard him use in briefing rooms, in alleys, in morgues. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“You,” Rook says mildly, taking his hand, “and your recent…associations.”
Translation?We know you’re working with Syndicate money under NATO cover like a coward.
Damien’s gaze flicks over Rook’s shoulder to me again. “And who,” he says, voice barely shifting, “isthisdelicious morsel?”
