The tactical plan is sound. The teams are in position. Every variable has been accounted for. But as I return to my study tomonitor communications, I can't escape the feeling that I've set something in motion I won't be able to control.
I'm sending her into an ambush because strategy demands it, and because I'm trying to prove to myself that she hasn't changed anything. But she has. I know it in the way my hands won't stay still while I watch the communications feed. I know it in the way every minute stretches into an hour even though she hasn't reached the location yet. I've sent dozens of operatives into dangerous situations over the centuries, and I've never once had to fight the urge to abandon the plan and follow them myself.
Controlling everything doesn't keep them alive. It just keeps them alone.
She was right. I've been alone for so long that I forgot it was a choice. Somewhere along the way, the walls I built to protect myself became a prison, and I stopped noticing the difference between surviving and living.
After tonight, she'll know what I did. She'll understand that I used her as bait without telling her, and whatever fragile trust existed between us will shatter. Part of me thinks that's for the best. Safe. Uncomplicated. Back to the way things were before she stumbled into that alley and looked at me like I was just a man.
The communications feed crackles. She's approaching the meeting point.
I watch the tracker move across the screen, and I wait.
Strange, how quickly safety has started to feel like a cage.
Chapter
Thirteen
The restaurant is called Mireille's, a French bistro tucked into a quiet corner of Midtown where the streetlights cast warm pools on rain-slicked pavement. I arrive fifteen minutes early.
The potential donor's name is Tessa Whitaker, according to the briefing. Late twenties, server at Mireille's for three years, referred through a friend of a friend who's already in the network. Routine vetting. Meet her after her shift ends at ten, assess her suitability, report back.
Simple. Straightforward. The kind of mission designed to build my confidence without putting me at real risk.
I find a spot in the shadows across the street where I can watch the restaurant's entrance and side door. The dinner rush is winding down, couples lingering over wine and dessert, waitstaff moving between tables with practiced efficiency. Through the windows, I can see a blonde-haired woman who matches Tessa's description clearing plates from a table near the back.
I text Julian to let him know I've arrived.
On site. No issues.
His response comes quickly.
Julian
Copy. Team is positioned.
I pocket my phone and settle in to wait.
The night air carries the smell of rain and car exhaust and something cooking at the Thai place down the block. A couple walks past my position, arms linked, laughing at something on one of their phones. They don't notice me in the shadows.
Not long ago, I was one of them. Walking through the world without knowing what lurked in the shadows. Now I'm what lurks there.
Tessa emerges from the side door at 10:07, pulling on a jacket against the November chill. She's pretty in an understated way, with delicate features and blonde hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She looks tired but not unhappy, the kind of tired that comes from honest work rather than despair.
I step out of the shadows as she approaches. "Tessa Whitaker?"
She startles slightly, then recovers. "You're from the network?"
"Celeste. I'm here to talk with you about the program, answer any questions you might have."
"Right. They said someone would come." She glances around the empty street. "There's a coffee shop around the corner that's open late. We could…"
"Here is fine." I gesture toward a bench near the bus stop, visible but not exposed. "It won't take long."
She hesitates, and I can see her weighing the situation. Meeting a stranger at night. The promise of money that sounds too good to be true. Every instinct telling her to be careful.
Smart woman. She should trust those instincts.
