He slides the slate forward. “One hour.”
I look at him. “One hour is tight.”
He shrugs. “Then move fast.”
I take the slate and turn toward the door.
The marshal calls after me, voice oily. “Bring your intel package too. As promised.”
I glance back over my shoulder.
“Oh,” I say, letting a little humor show. “You’ll get your dessert.”
His guards laugh politely. The marshal smiles like he just won.
I leave without showing my teeth.
But inside, I’m already building the pivot.
The Defrocked Nun’s operations room smells like coolant, smoke, and Jordan’s fury.
She’s pacing near a bank of monitors, hair tied back, eyes bright with adrenaline and anger. She has grime on her sleeve from the market tunnels. Her hands keep flexing like she wants to strangle the universe.
When I enter, she stops and stares at me.
“You look like you just shook hands with a snake,” she says.
I toss the slate onto the table. “Because I did.”
She snatches it up, scans the coordinates, and her mouth tightens. “Public transit hub. Industrial ring.”
“Yes.”
“And he wants you personally delivering Morazin.” Her gaze snaps up. “That’s a setup.”
“I know,” I say.
Jordan exhales sharply through her nose. “So why are we doing it?”
Because corruption hates a mirror, I think. Because if you lean on the rot correctly, it cracks in predictable places.
Out loud I say, “Because he’s offering a door. And we’re going to use it—then leave with the hinges.”
Jordan’s eyes narrow. “Okay, Godfather. What’s the plan?”
I ignore the title. Not because it doesn’t thrill something dark in me. Because I don’t have time to enjoy it.
“We run a disguised convoy,” I say. “Three vehicles. One decoy. One buffer. One real.”
Jordan’s brows lift slightly. “You’re thinking like a criminal.”
“I am a criminal,” I remind her gently.
She snorts. “Yeah, well, I’m thinking like a contractor. Which means if you want this to work, I need control of the city’s eyes.”
I nod. “You have it.”
That lands heavier than I intend. Jordan stills.
