I turn to Nyx. "Who is left? Who is loyal?"
"Team 3 is intact," Nyx reports. "Six operatives. Currently in holding pattern. And the cyber-team is remote."
"Activate them," I order. "All of them."
"What’s the objective, Director?"
I walk to the map on the wall of the bunker. I trace the red line of the city. "Thorne will be in lockdown," I say. "He knows I exposed him. He will be surrounded by police, lawyers, and the Syndicate’s best shooters."
"Correct. He’s at the City Hall bunker. Impenetrable."
"Nothing is impenetrable," I say, remembering the glass house. "You just have to find the right frequency to shatter it."
I turn to her. "We are going to cut his supply lines. We are going to freeze his accounts. We are going to leak every dirty secret he has to the press, the FBI, and the cartel leaders he betrayed." I pick up a knife from the table. I stab it into the map, right over City Hall. "And then, when he has nowhere left to run... I am going to walk in the front door."
"That’s suicide," Nyx says.
"No," I correct. "It’s a requiem."
I grab the tablet. I see the list of Alaric’s contacts. One name catches my eye.The cleaner.Call sign: Charon.
"Get the car," I say. "We're going hunting."
"For Thorne?"
"No," I say, my eyes narrowing. "First, we find the body."
Nyx freezes. "There is no body, Elodie. The tower was vaporized."
"Alaric doesn't die," I say, my conviction absolute. "He burns things. He breaks things. But he doesn't die. If there is no body, he is alive. And if he is alive... the Syndicate has him."
I check the chamber of the 1911.Click-clack."And God have mercy on anyone standing between me and my husband."
I didn't marry him. But I gave him my blood. I carry his legacy. I am his widow. And tonight, the widow bites back.
[SCENE BREAK]
Location:Unknown Facility.Time:Unknown.
Pain. White, blinding pain. It is the only thing that exists.
Alaric opens his eyes. Or tries to. One is swollen shut. He is hanging. His arms are chained above his head. The strain on his wounded shoulder is excruciating, a constant tearing sensation that makes him want to vomit. But his stomach is empty.
He looks around. Concrete walls. A drain in the floor. A metal table with tools. Not surgical tools. Torture tools.
A door opens. Light spills in, harsh and bright. A man walks in. He is wearing a suit. Pristine. Expensive. Senator Thorne.
He smiles. It is the smile of a politician who just won an election. "Dr. Graves," he says pleasantly. "Or should I say... the late Dr. Graves?"
Alaric tries to speak. His throat is dry, cracked. "Thorne..."
"You made quite a mess at my Gala," Thorne says, picking up a pair of pliers from the table. "My poll numbers are plummeting. My wife is leaving me. The FBI is asking questions."
He walks closer. "But you made one mistake, Alaric. You let the girl go."
Alaric smiles. It is a bloody, broken thing. "That wasn't... a mistake."
"Wasn't it?" Thorne twists the pliers. "She is alone now. Scared. Running. We will find her within the hour."
