Hawk
Kat waits until I finish checking the perimeter. Not impatiently — strategically.
“I need to go back,” she says.
She doesn’t beg or make a time demand. Just a statement.
“No.”
She doesn’t react immediately. I watch her fiddle with her fingernails. Then she looks at me and asks, “Why?”
“Because someone forced an elevator recall inside a secured building.”
“And you think hiding in the mountains fixes that?”
“It buys time.”
“For who?” she asks.
“For me.”
Her gaze sharpens.
“That’s not the question.”
I don’t answer. My satellite phone vibrates on the table.
Encrypted channel. I read the message once. Then again.
HOLD POSITION. DO NOT REINSERT. AWAIT DIRECTIVE.
I exhale slowly. She watches my face, reading micro-expressions.
“Your people,” she says.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They want you here.”
“For how long?”
“They didn’t specify.”
Her jaw tightens.
“If I don’t return,” she says carefully, “they’ll assume I’ve broken contact.”
“They already assume something.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then make me.”
The air shifts as she steps closer deliberately, but not in a flirtatious way.
“If I don’t show up,” she says quietly, “it confirms suspicion.”
