A fire crackles in the hearth. Mismatched furniture clusters around a worn rug. Books are stacked on every surface, some open, some marked with scraps of paper. The air smells like wood smoke and coffee and something savory cooking in the kitchen.
A man emerges from the back room as we enter. Tall, lanky, with messy curls and glasses that sit slightly crooked on his nose. He's wearing a sweater two sizes too big and holding a wooden spoon like he forgot he was cooking.
Landon Thompson. The civilian Briar was supposed to eliminate. The reason we're both on Webb's list.
He sees me and freezes. His eyes go wide behind the lenses, darting between me and Briar.
"It's fine," Briar says. "He's not here to kill us."
"That's reassuring." Landon's voice is higher than I expected, tight with anxiety. "The giant murder machine in our living room is not here to kill us. Great. Fantastic. I'll just go back to the risotto."
He doesn't go back to the risotto. He stays rooted in the doorway, spoon clutched in both hands.
Briar crosses to him, places a hand on his shoulder. The gesture is casual, automatic, the kind of touch that comes from long practice. Landon leans into it without seeming to notice.
"Jace Harrison," Briar says. "He's the one Jagger mentioned. The Reaper who went off-script."
"Off-script." Landon laughs, but there's no humor in it. "That's one way to put it. I read the files you showed me. Two hundred and seventeen confirmed kills. The thing with the ambassador's wife. The incident in—"
"Landon." Briar's voice is soft but firm. "He knows his rap sheet. I won’t let anything happen to you, okay. Relax."
Landon subsides, still gripping the spoon. His knuckles are white.
I look at them. At the way Briar positions himself between Landon and me, protective without being obvious. At the way Landon's fear doesn't drive him away but keeps him close, unwilling to leave Briar's side.
They remind me of something.Someone.
"Webb gave me seventy-two hours to kill both of you," I say. "Produce your bodies, and he releases my asset and wipes my record. Refuse, and he executes Elliot and takes me apart for reconditioning."
"Standard coercion protocol," Briar says. "Use the attachment as leverage. Force the target to choose between someone they love and their own survival."
"I won't make that choice."
"Then what will you do?"
"Find a third option." I meet his eyes. "That's why I'm here."
Briar considers. I watch him calculate, the same way I calculate. Weighing risks. Assessing outcomes. Determining whether I'm an asset or a threat.
"Sit," he says finally. "Tell me what you're proposing."
We sit at a rough wooden table by the fire. Landon brings coffee, hands shaking slightly as he sets the cups down. He takes a seat beside Briar, close enough that their shoulders touch.
I lay out the situation. Webb's ultimatum. The collar around Elliot's neck. The facility where he's being held. The time remaining before the deadline expires.
"The problem isn't Webb," I say. "Webb is a symptom. The problem is the Custodians. They're the ones who authorized this. They're the ones who decided that attachment is a malfunction that needs to be corrected."
"Or eliminated," Briar adds.
"Yes."
"So what's your proposal? Storm the facility, rescue your asset, disappear into the wind?" Briar shakes his head. "Even if you succeeded, they'd hunt you forever. Both of you. There's nowhere in the world they can't reach."
"I know." I wrap my hands around the coffee cup, feeling the heat seep into my palms. "That's why I'm not proposing a rescue. I'm proposing a coup."
Landon chokes on his coffee. Briar's expression doesn't change, but I see the flicker of interest in his eyes.
"Explain."
