Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
I won’t. I can’t.
And I hate that I hurt him.
That said, it’s better than killing him.
“Noted,” I say, sliding past him toward my sad little desk-that-isn’t-a-desk. “When I need seduction advice from a man whose flirting technique was lifted directly from a Brontë novel, I’ll let you know. Until then, try not to brood so hard, you sprain something.”
“Rude,” he calls after me.
I settle onto my stool (I refuse to call it a chair, since chairs have backs and this is basically a wooden mushroom held together by duct tape) and Bayo looks up from his workstation.
His setup is the one genuinely impressive thing in our whole office: three curved monitors, a mechanical keyboard that makes the most pleasing clacking sounds, and enough blinking lights to guide a plane in for landing. Daniel Babatunde—Bayo to everyone he considers a friend—is our cyber operations specialist, on loan from Government Communications Headquarters and permanently embedded with us because he’s too valuable to give back. He’s built like a rugby player gone slightly soft, with close-cropped hair and a gregarious face that’s quick to smile, though when he’s serious, he’s serious.
“Anything?” I ask, not specifying what.
He shakes his head. “Not yet, Miss Mia. But Van Veen’s people are thorough. Could take a few days to vet everything. Thank God your journalism background is legit.”
“Yeah, well, the suspense is killing me,” I groan.
“Because you’re the least patient person in this room. But pushing won’t help. Either they bite or they don’t.”
“Helpful, Bayo. Very Zen.”
“I do what I can.” His cheeky grin flashes white against his dark skin.
“Mia.”
We both look up. Katarina Morozov is standing in the doorway to Mank’s office, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Kat is my mentor, my trainer, and—depending on the day—my harshest critic. Former FSB, she defected during the tensions with Russia and brought a lifetime’s worth of tradecraft with her. She’s slight and pale, with dark hair cropped close to her skull and the kind of face that disappears into a crowd. Forgettable by design. Memorable only to those who’ve seen what she can do with a garrote and thirty seconds of privacy.
She taught me everything I know about surveillance, dead drops, asset handling, how to vanish into a city and become someone else entirely. How to live as a NOC, as someone who doesn’t exist, and how to make peace with being a ghost.
She won’t admit it, but she also hasn’t forgiven me for Minsk, and I’m not sure she ever will. I was her protégé, and I let her down in a spectacular way.
“Mank wants you,” she says, her accent still carrying traces of Moscow despite fifteen years in London, though she can make it disappear at will.
My stomach drops. “The briefing isn’t for another two hours.”
“Did I say briefing?” Her dark eyes give nothing away. “He wants you. His office. Now.”
My face flushes as I stand, smoothing my hands on my trousers to hide the fact that they’ve gone clammy. Bayo gives me an encouraging nod. Cal watches from the kitchen doorway, his mug frozen halfway to his lips.
As I cross the room, I pass Fi, who’s emerging from the storage closet we generously call the archives. Fiona Chen—the newest and youngest member of our team—has dust on her cheek, her dark hair escaping from its bun. She’s got delicate features that make her look younger than her twenty-four years: high cheekbones, wide, dark eyes, a mouth that’s perpetually quirked in private amusement. Socially awkward and unassuming, she was recruited straight out of SOAS with a gift for languages and an improv background that makes her dangerously good at thinking on her feet. It certainly helped at the gala.
Like me, Fi is enhanced in her own special way. She was also engineered by my father, in a program I try not to think about too much. We don’t talk about it much either, but there’s an understanding between us, a shared weight. She’s the only other person I know who was made into something before she had any say in the matter.
She catches my eye as I pass and gives me a thumbs up, though with her, I can’t tell if it’s sarcastic or genuine. I take it as the latter.
I knock twice on Mank’s door and take a deep breath.
Here goes nothing.
CHAPTER 4
MIA
Roger Mank is standing behind his desk, in a dark suit silhouetted against the grey London light filtering through a window he never opens. At seventy, he’s still striking in a way that suggests he was devastating in his youth, with silver hair swept back from a face that belongs on currency. Tabby likes to say he was the inspiration for James Bond, even though he was born decades after Fleming released the books. Still, I think Mank takes it to heart, just a little. He dresses immaculately, and he truly does love martinis and fast cars.