“What resources?”The question is from a place of curiosity, as I’m still fleshing out this new group I’ve joined.
“Our backer can tap a global black-ops outfit.”
“Which?”
“Arrow Tactical.”
“We can’t wait.She’ll be suspicious.”
“Understood.”His disapproval rings clear.“You’re carrying, right?”
My hand ghosts over the tote strap, reassurance by reflex.“Debating.If they sweep bags, it sends the wrong signal.”One wrong weight on my hip and the meeting shifts from conversation to cautionary tale.
“Not a question.Given your background, she’ll expect it.”
It’s a myth that CIA always carries.Often we don’t—collection beats confrontation.Like this.I don’t argue with my boss, but my gut outranks the briefing when I’m the one in the room.
I keep scanning the sidewalk through the café window.Paris hums outside—bicycles clicking over cobblestone, a woman laughing in a language that always sounds like seduction.
“Brie?”
“Understood.”
“Comms?”
“Pointless—she’ll jam them.I’ll record.”
“She won’t say anything incriminating.”He’s right of course.She’ll be careful with her words.“Can he hear you right now?”
My eyes meet Adrien’s across the small cafe.He looks frustrated with the speed of service, but there’s probably a reason this little café didn’t have a line during what should be the morning rush.
“No.”
“His plan to take over Eddie’s role.Is that a ruse, or does he plan to continue sourcing content for Magpie?”
“Do we care?”It’s a question I’ve asked myself, and I’m curious to hear my boss’s take.
“If she’s willing to expose the parties extorting the senator, then no.At least, that’s the boss’s take.”
The boss.Our silent financial backer.
“And yours?”
“I’d like to gain more intel before coming to that conclusion.”
“The stated plan is to end his role as a source.”My gut check is Adrien has zero intention of exposing his membership, but my experience is that many fall to opportunity’s siren song.
Adrien arrives at the table with our lattes in to-go cups, his eyes narrowing with the question he doesn’t voice.I give him a soft smile I want to believe.The truth is thinner.
His father’s message landed with a location—23 Avenue Junot, Pavillon D—and a thirty-minute window.A pulse of coordinates disguised as civility.I didn’t need Hudson to tell me we just let Moira choose every advantage.
After I end the call, Adrien asks, “Your boss?”
I nod in the affirmative and break apart a piece of croissant.Hardly the breakfast of champions, but my body hasn’t adjusted to the time change, and the request to meet at nine in the morning is unexpected.
I tucked the subcompact in the tote’s side pocket.If someone checks the bag, they’ll find it.I’m not carrying anything on my body.
If she wishes to eliminate us, we could make the task quite simple for Moira.But if she’s friends with his father, if they go way back as photographs indicate, then it’s unlikely she’d kill her friend’s son.Unlikely, but not impossible.
