I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, forcing a wet, realistic sob into the back of my throat.
“The Russians,” I cry, my voice breaking. “They found the estate where I was being held. There was a shootout. The man who kidnapped me... he’s dead.”
I open my eyes and look directly at Cassian. He is perfectly still, a dark statue watching me lie without blinking.
“I ran,” I sob into the mic, pitching my voice up with manufactured panic. “I hid in the woods while they were fighting. But Daddy... before I ran, I grabbed a flash drive from his desk. It’s what they were fighting over.”
I pause for two seconds, letting a shuddering, terrified breath fill the silence on the recording.
“I plugged it into my phone. I don’t understand the files, but your name is all over them. Daddy, I think they’re going to use it against you. I think they want to ruin you.”
I drop my voice to a frantic, terrified whisper.
“I’m so scared. I hid in the back of a delivery truck to get across the bridge, and now I’m in an alley in the city. I can’t go to the police. I don’t know who to trust. Please, Daddy. Come get me. Meet me at the Waldorf. The VIP study. It’s the only place I know I can get inside using your code where I’m safe. Tonight at midnight. Please come yourself.”
I let out one final, stifled, agonizing sob.
“I love you.”
I reach out and tap the spacebar on Varro’s keyboard. The recording stops.
The low hum of the servers returns to the room.
I pull the headset off and set it gently on the glass table. My breathing instantly returns to normal. I straighten my spine. The mask drops, leaving my features blank.
Varro is staring at me, seeming genuinely unnerved.
“Upload it,” I say. “Send it.”
Varro clicks his mouse. “Sent. It’s sitting in his secure inbox right now.”
I look at Cassian. He hasn’t moved an inch. His eyes assess me.
“You were too good at that,” he says.
“I spent twenty-four years twisting myself into the perfect daughter,” I reply, holding his gaze without flinching. “This was one more performance.”
He pushes off the edge of the table. The hesitation is gone. The reluctance is burned away by the undeniable reality that I’m not the terrified girl he dragged out of the museum anymore. I’m a loaded gun, and I’m ready to fire.
He reaches into the pocket of his cargo pants and hands me a small, translucent piece of plastic—a microscopic earpiece. I press it into my ear canal, the device seating with a tiny click.
“Varro,” he barks, taking full command of the room. “I want Team 6 mobilized. Black SUVs, no plates, heavily armed. Gear up.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turns toward the steel door at the back of the command center and walks into the staging bay. I follow immediately.
Six men are already there. They are the same shadows I saw at the museum—ex-military, efficient, and currently stripped to their T-shirts as they check their gear. They stop as Cassian enters. The temperature in the room seems to drop.
“Change of plans,” he says. His voice is flat. “We aren’t defensive anymore. We’re hitting the city.”
A man named Kael, whose arms are a map of scar tissue, stops mid-load on his rifle. “The city? The NYPD is still crawling over Midtown. What’s the target?”
“Judge William Hale,” Cassian says.
The men look at each other. They know the Judge. In their world, Hale is the infrastructure—the reason their warrants disappear and their shipments clear the docks.
“Hale is the benefactor,” Kael says, his voice low. “You’re talking about hitting the man who keeps us out of a cage.”
“I’m talking about hitting a man who tried to burn this house with you inside,” Cassian counters. He steps into Kael’s space, forcing the man to look up. “He targeted this network. He used the Syndicate to liquidate his remaining assets. Meaning us. He’s closing the books, Kael. If we don’t drop him tonight, there won’t be anyone left to clear your warrants because you’ll be dead or buried.”
