Fuck.
I let it ring and finished the last two push-ups. I felt the shake in my triceps, the heat in my scar, the clean animal pain that told me I was alive and nothing else.
The burner continued to scream just a couple of inches away from me. That was the rule here: always keep the phone within reach.
I rolled, snatched it from the crate I used for a nightstand, and answered without looking at the number. "Operative Seven."
"Father requests your presence," the voice said, tight and businesslike. Secretary.
I sat up, wiped a line of sweat from my forehead with the back of my free hand. "Right now?"
"Yes," Secretary confirmed.
I ended the call, slipped on a black T-shirt from the clean laundry stack, and double-checked the room out of habit. It was spartan with no windows—a modest twin bed, the crate, a shelf with several military-themed and psychology books, a closet with a week's worth of tactical clothing, and some basic hygiene products. A lamp stood in the corner next to the rack of dumbbells.
I kept nothing else. The Bureau didn't want us attached to anything.
The corridors outside were empty. Always, at this hour. Or any hour for that matter. The light was pale, buzzing with the low energy of multiplefluorescents. Cameras tracked every angle, but I knew the dead spots—Father had mapped them himself, taught us how to ghost through our own house. He called it training. The doors I passed were numbered, no names. Sometimes you'd hear a voice from behind one, low and strained, or a TV.
Security glass ran along the east hall, a fishbowl view of the backup server cluster. The only other living thing on my route was an old janitor buffing the same square of floor he always buffed at this time. We never acknowledged each other. The appropriate greeting here was a nod, a flicker of eye contact. Anything more was a risk.
I didn't know how he looked because he wore a mask and he'd never seen my face either. Another rule here was to never leave your room without cover. Mine preferred one was a black bandana that hid most of my face except for the eyes.
Father's office was downstairs and at the end of the main corridor, past two keycards and a print scanner. I pressed my thumb to the plate, waited for the soft blue chime, then entered.
Inside stood a lonely round table with a lamp with a cone of light. Across, under the cover of shadow, a male silhouette occupied a chair.
Father.
His face was obscured by the dark. Today he wore a three-piece suit, cuffs buttoned with dull black studs. His hands were resting on a manila envelope in his lap.
I waited, standing.
"Operative Seven," he said in a gravelly voice. "Sit."
I sat. The chair wasn't like his. It was too straight, designed to make you feel exposed and uncomfortable.
He regarded me for a moment. Or least it felt like he did. I imagined his eyes in the gloom, trying to remember what color they were. But it's been too many years since he'd shown me his face.
"How are you?" he asked.
I replied automatically. "I'm ready."
"You don't wonder what you're ready for?"
"I figure you'll tell me."
Father tapped the manila folder, fingers drumming with impossible precision. "There's an inquiry. It requires your particular skill set."
I glanced at the envelope, knowing what it contained. The potential targets. "What's the job?"
"The details are here." He tossed the envelope on the table.
I picked it up and broke the seal. Inside were four high-resolution photos, each printed with a matte finish on archival stock.
The first one was a surveillance shot. A young woman on a park bench at dusk in an oversized hoodie and leggings. She looked like she was bracing against the wind, or maybe against the world itself. Her posture was compressed, arms locked tight in her lap. Face pale, eyes locked on the water as if daring it to look away first. Next to her sat Father. Of course, his face wasn't visible. The background was a park, and the sky was dark.
"This is the client," he said.
