Page 198 of Damsel in Disguise

Strangely enough, that’s the more dangerous choice.

“Mind telling me where this shit exists?”

“The Forest of Dean.”

“Wow, so damn helpful,” he throws his arms in the air.

“The exact coordinates are in the iPad you’re holding if that helps,” and I extend my hand, offering it to him again.

Asher actually accepts it and lets out a string of colorful curses. He steps back, pacing around in restless small circles for a few moments.

“You do realize if any of this turns out to be fabricated, I’m personally putting a bullet through your skull,” he says, coming to a stop.

“A reasonable response.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. What you choose to do is your decision.”

The answer seems to annoy him even more.

Yet finally, I allow myself a small measure of relief.

The files are no longer mine alone. The burden is no longer mine only. And if the Dominion finds me before the time runs out, there will still be someone left holding the leash on them.

Asher grabs and looks down at the iPad again. But this time, he doesn’t scroll like a man reading intelligence. The faintest tilt of his head, there’s a recalculation behind his eyes. He’s already running through infrastructure, assets, and access points before replying affirmatively.

He slowly lowers the iPad. “Don’t tell me you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”

I almost laugh. “Not even slightly.”

“Then why? After all these years?”

The answer is simple.

For years, I adapted. Survived. Complied. Convinced myself there would eventually be a better time to fight back.

Then Ariella happened.

A girl who should’ve been another name in a database. A girl who should’ve never danced into my darkness.

Instead, she became the first variable I couldn’t rationalize away. The first reason I stopped accepting the future they’d chosen for her. Because I’ve seen bits myself in her.

The world is a better place without accommodating another Alistair Hertley.

So I give him the clearest answer I’ve given so far. “Ariella.”

“Fucking hell, I knew I hated you. I am putting a bullet in you for that, you slimy motherfucker,” Asher points at me, trying to scare me.

We both know it’s not working.

I let out a short laugh. “After it’s all done and dusted.”

He doesn’t reply but turns away first, making it less than three steps before he stops.

Without looking back, he says, “You better hope we meet again, Alistair.”

The name settles heavily, like both a promise and a threat, between us. With him, it’s often the same thing.