My fingers curled slightly against the table.
Not from fear.
From memory.
Vincent turned his gaze to me and to the agent seated beside me — Roman Caldwell.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Former military intelligence.
Sharp analytical mind.
“Agent Voss,” Vincent continued. “Agent Caldwell. You two are headed to California.”
My chest tightened — but I forced my expression neutral.
California.
The place where I had coincidentally — and painfully — ended up marrying a man who destroyed me.
Where I was kidnapped and tortured repeatedly.
Where my own father faked his death and abandoned me as if he had never known me.
Vincent flipped to a strategic map.
A red pin marked Los Angeles.
“Baranov’s operations recently expanded along the West Coast through shell corporations and construction front companies.”
He pointed to highlighted assets. “Real estate acquisitions. Port activity. Logistics channels.”
“He maintains legitimate business cover,” Vincent said. “Luxury imports. Shipping firms. Infrastructure investments.”
“Your assignment is simple in theory — complicated in execution.”
He looked directly at me when he said it.
“Get close.”
“Embed.”
“Observe.”
“Document.”
My spine straightened automatically.
“Do not engage unless your life — or someone else’s — is in immediate danger.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Two months minimum to produce something actionable.”
Silence settled over the room.
“Understood?”
The weight of the mission pressed down on me.
