Which means the real work can finally begin.
6
Aaron
Location: Safehouse — Lisbon
Time: Dawn
The city hasn’t woken yet.
That’s the only reason we still have a margin.
I stand at the window with the blinds cracked just enough to watch the street below. Lisbon breathes differently at this hour—delivery vans, a jogger who doesn’t know how close he is to crossing a kill box, a woman unlocking a bakery like nothing in the world is wrong.
Behind me, Lark’s laptop sits closed.
I don’t like that it exists.
I like even less what’s inside it.
Ronan’s voice comes through the comms, low and controlled. “We’ve looped local feeds. No uniformed presence. No spikes.”
“They won’t rush,” I say. “They’ve already adjusted.”
“I know,” he answers. “That’s what worries me.”
I kill the channel and turn away from the window.
Lark sits on the couch, posture straight, eyes alert despite the exhaustion weighing on her like gravity. She hasn’t slept. Neither have I.
“You’re not going anywhere today,” I tell her.
Her jaw tightens. “I figured.”
“This isn’t a suggestion.”
She nods once, absorbing it. No theatrics. No panic.
That restraint is dangerous—for both of us.
“I’ve arranged rotation,” I continue. “No predictable patterns. No direct exposure. You stay inside until we relocate you.”
Her gaze sharpens. “Relocate me where?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On how much of the list we can map before they realize we’ve shifted strategy.”
She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “You’re treating me like a package.”
“I’m treating you like a high-value asset,” I correct.
Her eyes flash. “I’m not an asset.”
“No,” I say, voice steady. “You’re the reason they’re exposed. That makes you leverage whether you want it or not.”
