“Wait.” My voice came out sharp. “I know where I’ve seen her.”
Phee raised her head.
“There’s a painting hanging in the family wing at Greymarch. It was above a fireplace.”
Our eyes met.
“You’re right,” Phee said, barely above a whisper. “I remember it.”
“That’s his mother.” My stomach dropped, and I clenched my fists. “This fucking penthouse belongs to him. Jesus. He’s still controlling us.” I set the framed photo down harder than I meant to. “He threw us out without a word, then has us collected and delivered here? What are we, packages? Property he’s transferring between storage units?”
My hands shook with fury I couldn’t contain.
“Maybe there’s a reason?—”
“Then, he should have told us what it was.” I stopped in front of the window and rolled my shoulders. Phee came up behind me, wrapped her arms around my waist, and rested her cheek on my shoulder.
Her warmth grounded me, and for a moment, neither of us spoke.
“We need to find out who he is,” she said quietly. “We’re missing something, and whatever it is, it’s the reason he sent us away.”
She was right. The Kiernan we got to know during our brief stay at Greymarch didn’t throw people away without an explanation.
“Let’s get to work.” I grabbed my laptop from the go bag.
Our computer screenscast a blue light across the marble floor when we set up at the dining table. The flat’s wifi was secure—of course it was—and our credentials got us into the standard personnel databases without issue. What it contained was minimal, but maybe we’d still find some detail that would give us our first clue.
Kiernan Lockhart. Archon. Unit 23.
His service record was exemplary. Multiple commendations. A career trajectory that marked him as exceptional.
“Look at this.” Phee turned her screen toward me. “Seven years ago. Extended personal leave.”
“How long?”
“Six weeks.”
“Reason?” I asked.
“Classified. Above our access level.” She scrolled further. “But look at the timeline.”
She loaded two documents up side by side. Before the leave, he’d been on the standard MI6 command track—driven, committed, excellent interpersonal skills, strong leadership potential. After, he’d transferred to Unit 23.
“That’s not a demotion,” I said slowly, working through it. “Unit 23 is elite. But it’s also…”
“Independent,” Phee finished. “No team command. No direct reports. Operatives who work alone or in small cells, brought in for specific missions.”
The kind of role where a man could excel without ever having to be responsible for anyone else’s well-being.
“So he was on track to lead teams, then something happened, and he chose a path where he’d never have to.”
Phee’s voice was soft. “What happened to him?”
I stared at the screen. Somewhere in those classified files was the answer. But we couldn’t reach it. Not from here. Not with our clearance.
“We’re stuck,” I said. “Unless we can find another way in.”
Phee closed her laptop. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
