“Fix the delay,” I say. “I don’t want ten seconds of darkness.”
“I’m working on it, but the storm is playing hell with the relays. If that delay stretches past ten seconds, it isn’t the weather. It means the lines were cut.”
I stare at the darkness.
The Judge knows where we are. The Syndicate knows where we are.
We repelled the first wave. We survived the probe. But they didn’t commit their main force. Kirill—the man leading thecontract—isn’t the type to give up after a few burning SUVs. He’s a hammer. He’ll keep swinging until the nail is flush or the wood splits.
“Status on the decryption?” I ask.
“Slow,” he admits. “The audio files on Elias’s drive are heavily encoded. We’ve got the metadata—timestamps, geolocations—but the actual conversations are garbled. The tech team says they need another twenty-four hours to clean the signal. Right now, we can pull timestamps and locations, not voices.”
“We don’t have twenty-four hours.”
“I know.”
I turn away from the window.
The office is small tonight. The walls, lined with books I’ve inherited but never read, feel like they’re closing in.
“Where is she?” I ask.
He nods toward the ceiling. “Last I checked, she was heading for the library in the tower. Guess the storm’s keeping her up.”
I check my watch. 23:00.
“Keep the perimeter tight,” I order. “If the sensors trip again, I want eyes on it before we dismiss it as wind.”
“Copy.”
He leaves, shutting the heavy door behind him.
I’m alone with the storm. I should be planning. I should be reviewing the kill zones, checking the ammo reserves, and analyzing the patrol routes.
But my mind keeps drifting upstairs to the girl in the gray sweater.
She didn’t run today, try to sabotage the comms, or throw glass. She kept her end of the deal.
It seems she accepts the narrative. She believes Elias was a thief and that the Syndicate wants leverage.
She trusts me.
The thought sits in my gut. She trusts the man who put the bruises on her hips and the fear in her eyes.
It’s dangerous, and if Kirill breaches the walls tonight, hesitation gets her killed.
I think about the museum. About the way she froze when I shot Elias.
If that happens again, I can’t save her. I can’t be everywhere at once. I need her to move. To fight.
I walk out of the office and head for the private elevator.
She’s exactly where Varro said she’d be in the library.
It’s a suspended glass box on the mezzanine level of the Tower, overlooking the ocean. The rain is lashing against the three walls of glass, the panes vibrating so violently against the wind.
Iris is curled up in a leather armchair, a thick book resting on her knees. She’s wearing a gray cashmere sweater and dark jeans. Her feet are bare, tucked under her for warmth.
