My fingers curl into fists against my thighs. The job is to use her, to get what I need out of that bank. That’s all. Clean, simple. But I’m listening to her whisper like she’s walking into enemy fire, and for the first time in years, I feel something close to nerves.
Not for me.
For her.
I glance at Boris. He’s focused on his screens, chewing loudly on some mystery snack. Oblivious.
I force my jaw to unclench. She can handle this. She has to. But the thought slides through me like a blade: if anyone lays a hand on her, if anyone makes her pay for being tied to me, I will burn this city down to make it right.
“She’ll be fine,” Boris says quietly, fingers still flying across his keyboard. “Audio is crystal clear. We’ll hear everything.”
But that’s not the point. The point is that if something goes wrong, if Caleb sees her planting the device, if he decides she knows too much, I’m two miles away, sitting in a chair that smells like desperation, completely useless.
The realization hits me with unexpected force: I don’t want her in danger. Not for the mission, not for intel, not for anything.
I want her safe.
And that’s a problem. Because men like me don’t get to want things like that.
Three soft knocks echo through the speakers. Professional. Polite.
“Come in,” Caleb’s voice.
The audio shifts—footsteps on carpet, the soft click of a door closing. My entire body goes rigid. She’s in his office now. Alone with him.
“Mary, thank you for coming. Please, sit.”
“Of course, Mr. Whitfield. How can I help you?”
Her voice is steady, but I catch the slight tremor underneath. She’s scared. Good. Fear keeps you alive.
Boris leans forward, adjusting the audio levels. We can hear everything—the creak of chairs, the rustle of papers, even Caleb’s breathing.
“I wanted to discuss your future here at Brightside,” Caleb says. “Your performance has been… noteworthy.”
What the hell does that mean? I force myself to stay still, but every muscle in my body is coiled tight.
“I appreciate that, sir. I’ve been trying to—”
“You’ve been asking a lot of questions lately. About accounts. About procedures.”
Silence. My heart pounds against my ribs.
Then Mary’s voice, carefully measured: “I just want to do my job well.”
“Of course you do.” There’s something in Caleb’s tone… patronizing, predatory. “That’s exactly why I think you’d be perfect for a special project I have in mind.”
More silence. Then the soft scrape of something being moved across a desk.
“These files need reviewing,” Caleb continues. “Very sensitive material. I need someone I can trust.”
Boris and I exchange a look. This isn’t small talk. This isn’t recruitment either.
This is a test.
“I’d be honored to help,” Mary says, and I can hear her moving, shifting in her chair, probably reaching for the files.
That’s when she does it. The soft magnetic click is barely audible through the speakers, but I catch it. Boris grins and gives me a thumbs-up.
