It was hard to see because it was dark outside but his silhouette was there, still straddling the bike, staring up at my apartment. I wondered if knowing my address was also part of his job. Then, I wondered if I should wave.
I decided against it.
He did absolutely nothing. Just continued to look at my window for a few more seconds, then gunned the throttle and pulled away from the complex.
I watched him until I couldn't see or hear him, or even imagine the shape of his body against the bike.
I pressed a palm to my chest, questioning the rapid heartbeat, and catalogued all my thoughts from tonight. I thought that my earlier sentiments about safety were caused by adrenaline, but now that it was gone, I realized that it wasn't a momentary lapse of judgment.
For the first time in years, I felt almost safe.
But the weirdest thing?
That night I slept like a rock.
15 seven
Night detonated around me at a hundred miles an hour. The Ducati's engine wailed, redlining on the long, almost empty road through the city. I felt the wind's fists pounding my helmet and the ragged heat of my own lungs.
I cut through the lanes like a razor, barely flicking the bars to miss the convoys of semi-trucks or the slow, blind suburbans that crept along the margins.
The Bureau's compound waited, still and silent as always, hidden behind the fake walls of the building stating this was a private security firm.
I made the turn onto the service route that snaked around into the underground parking lot, hit the brakes hard enough to shudder the bike, and skidded into the dark. Even after the blackout stretch, my eyes dialed in immediately. I counted the cameras as I approached the ground floor.
My body ran cold, then hot, then back to cold again. There was something knotted up under the sternum, and I hated that I couldn't name it.
I suspected it was frustration.
Not the mission kind, not even the dumb rage I sometimes let myself have after a successful task. No, this was new. A glitched loop in the last few hours' memory. Her face. Her hands, shaking on my jacket. The way she held her fear like it was glass that would shatter if dropped.
Security protocol at the entrance to the fenced off section of the lot never changed, which was either reassuring or suicidal depending on how you viewed the world. I coasted up to the first gate, where the twin monoliths of carbon fiber and ceramic watched the approach. The sensor armsunfolded with the same hesitant grace as always, a ballet of lasers and needles.
First, the retinal scan—burn of blue, a starburst in my left eye after I lifted the helmet's visor. Second, the fingertip. I killed the engine, yanked the glove off my right hand, and pressed my index finger into the pad. Cold, sticky with the residue of the night.
Third was the voice.
"Operative Seven," I said, and my own voice came out flat and strange, even to my ears.
The gate slid open, silent on its rails. I rolled the bike through, letting the engine purr as I followed the strip-lit lane to the main access. No one met me. There never was anyone, not unless you'd fucked up.
The compound looked like it always did—blank concrete and emptiness. I parked in the shadow of the intake fan, next to another bike I didn't recognize. Not many operatives chose a bike as their main means of transportation. Maybe it belonged to one of the newbies. Or maybe someone ruined their previous ride and needed a temporary one until they had their permanent one replaced to something similar. In this line of work, collateral damage happened often.
I killed the engine and sat for a second, feeling the vibrations die inside my muscles and bones.
I pulled off my helmet completely, letting the cold air coming from the overhead fan freeze the sweat on my scalp. The night was as empty as it should be. But I still couldn't shake the edge off.
My hands moved on their own, checking every buckle and seam on my jacket before I stood. Every movement precise, but faster than necessary. Then I hid the helmet into its designated compartment after removing the spare one the client used. I made sure the kill switch was set, and strode toward the access door.
Inside, the halls were deserted—no chatter, no music.
I took the left staircase, heading up, bandana still knotted around my neck. At the first landing, I paused and checked the corners. The lights here stuttered at exact intervals, three seconds on, one second dim. I waited for the darkness, then moved. Old habit, not strictly necessary anymore since I wasn't in training, but the fact that protocol was religion in this place had been burned into my brain like a tattoo on skin.
At my door, I tapped the code into the pad and pressed my palm to the scanner. The lock buzzed, and I slid inside.
The room was exactly as I'd left it—everything in order. I removed the gloves, tossed my jacket onto the chair, stripped off the shirt, wrestled outof my boots, then walked into the bathroom. It was just as plain as the room itself, filled only with necessary things. In the mirror above the sink, I stared at the reflection of the wings on my pec. The ink almost glowed under the cool white light. I pressed a hand to the burn above my hip disappearing below the waistband of my pants, traced the edges out of habit.
I didn't remember how I got it. It must have been before I lost all my memories. Before I'd come to live with Father.
