“They have to be credible,” Alec added. “Someone he’d approach.”
Silence stretched.
Then—
“Julia.”
Leland didn’t catch who spoke. It didn’t matter.
“No,” he said, the word slicing through the room. “We don’t use civilians. Not anymore.”
His gaze swept the table, briefly catching Alec’s. He knew better than anyone what it cost.
Only one man argued. Mateo. “We could monitor her. Keep her safe.”
Alec shook his head. “Emily talked to her. She’s done with The Underground.”
A collective exhale, small yet real, moved through the room.
“Credible,” Gaby repeated. “Someone who can pass without trying.” She paused, and Leland knew where she was going before she said it. “It has to be me.”
Rhys shut it down instantly. “No. It’s too soon.”
He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to. The rigid set of his shoulders said enough.
“I’m the only option,” Gaby countered. “It’s not like we can send Leland in as bait.”
Dev closed the folder in front of him. “Work it out, you two.” He was already moving toward the door. “We’ll pick this up again in twenty.”
Rhys rose, held Gaby’s chair for her, and followed her out of the room.
After they left, Michael let out a low whistle. “Glad my wife has an office job.”
Callan grunted softly. “Greta would say yes if we asked.”
“Over my dead body,” the big man replied.
Chairs shifted. Coffee was poured. The room buzzed with conversations as Callan pulled up additional files, reviewing them on screen.
Leland didn’t move, processing the real-world fact settling hard and ugly in his chest. Julia could have been a target. After all these years, nothing had changed. No matter how manylimits he put in place, and how many walls he built, people he cared about still ended up in the crosshairs.
He stared at the images another second then shoved away from the table. The chair rolled hard into the wall as he strode from the room. He needed air. Needed his head on straight.
Leland felt the weight of the others’ stares, their unasked questions, but he didn’t slow. And he didn’t look back.
***
The door clicked shut behind them. Neither sat. For a moment, neither spoke.
Rhys stood with his hands at his sides, shoulders squared, not from posture but from restraint.
Gaby walked to the desk and gripped the edge, grounding herself before facing him.
He got there first. “It’s only been four months since Costa Rica.” His voice was controlled, almost maddeningly so.
“I’m good,” she said evenly.
He held her gaze. “You’re getting there. But the trauma response alone—”
