I press my hand flat to the panel above the workspace. The false back drops open with a whir, and there's the secure terminal:retro keyboard, no mouse, screen in dead black. I flick it on, my password a sequence of violence—numbers and symbols, a history written in blood.
The blue light paints the room, catching the sweat on my skin and the haunted, exhausted look on Landon's face as he sits across from me. He doesn't ask what I'm doing, not at first. He just watches, arms crossed, his eyes never blinking.
I know the path through the system by heart. Layers of security—biometrics, codes that rewrite themselves if you hesitate. I don't hesitate. I'm the one who designed half of this, and the other half is a joke for people who think rules will save them.
The Silent's mainframe is a living organism, always adapting, always hungry for new data. I slice through the walls, reach the core: Personnel. Every name, every title, every asset and liability. Most people never know they're in the database until they're dead or worse. Some don't know even then.
I exhale, fingers over the keys, then open the next shell: House Ownership. It's an old tool, used for the trade in people more than the trade in things. A single change here, and you can reroute the entire apparatus of surveillance, of violence, of death.
"What are you doing?" Landon asks. Not soft. Not scared. Just curious, like always.
I don't look up. "Last ditch attempt to stop this madness."
He leans in, eyes sharp in the blue light. "Is this about me, or about you?"
I smile, tight, as the cursor blinks. "Does it matter?"
He considers, then shakes his head. "No."
I enter the code. Asset Transfer. The screen blinks twice, then loads a confirmation window. I key in my own ID, the bloodline override, and reroute every threat attached to Landon's name straight to my own.
Asset Status: HARRINGTON.
There it is. In black and white, and in every network from here to the bottom of hell: Landon Thompson, property of House Harrington, under exclusive protection and jurisdiction.
The change will propagate in under ten minutes. Maybe five. The Director will see it, and will know what I've done. It won't stop the hunt, but it means The Silent need to be much more cautious in their pursuit of us. Dispatching us will go against the very thing the entire operation is founded on. Power of the Custodians working together. Having each other’s backs. Killing him is no longer just tidying up. It's a war crime, a slap in the face of centuries of politics.
It's the most reckless thing I've ever done.
I stare at the screen, letting it sink in. The air in the cubicle is thin, the light harsh. Landon watches, then looks at me, like he's seeing past my skin for the first time.
"Why?" he asks.
I close the terminal, locking it with a palm print. "Because I want you alive."
He shakes his head, almost laughing, like he doesn't know what to do with the answer. "You realize this makes you the mostwanted man in the city, right? You transferred my blood debt to yourself."
I nod. "I was already. Now it's just official."
There's a silence. Not awkward, not charged. Just silence.
He leans back in the chair, stretching, the Glock still tucked in his waistband. The color is coming back to his face, and the dark under his eyes is less about fear now than about exhaustion.
"You're insane," he says, but not with malice.
I don't answer. I get up, move to the compartment, and drag out a first aid kit. My own wounds are starting to seep through the gauze, and the stitches burn as I twist. I peel the bandage, clean the edges, and watch Landon as he sits there, waiting, not fidgeting, not running.
It's the first time in years I've done something just because I wanted to. Not because it was the best move, or the right play, or what the House required.
I protected someone that I wanted to save. A foreign feeling, but the truest I’ve ever had.
I finish the wrap, toss the bloody gauze, and sit down across from him again. The terminal glows in the background, a heartbeat in the dark.
"We'll land in Geneva," I say. "From there, we have to get to the chalet. Brooks will send coordinates of his house, and try throw them off our track. He can’t collect on a favor if I’m dead."
He nods, absorbing. "What happens if he fails?"
I look at my hands. They shake, just a little. "That's when the real teams come."
