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 take the file and stand to leave.
“One more thing.” His voice stops me at the door. “Van Veen didn’t just approve you, Mia. She said she made an exception for you that she won’t make for anyone else.”
That stops me cold. “Why would she do that?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? Either she sees something in you that’s useful to her agenda, or she doesn’t believe you are who you say you are.”
A chill skitters up my spine. “There’s no way she knows my true identity,” I say quietly.
“No, she most likely does not,” he says. “We wouldn’t be doing this if your cover was already blown. But that doesn’t mean we take things at face value. She might think you’re digging for a hit piece, or you’re not a journalist at all and have been hired by their rivals, someplace like Titan Industries, to get the competitive edge. Either way—watch yourself. That woman didn’t get where she is by being careless.”
“Copy that.”
“And Mia?” I’m halfway through the door. “Whatever happened in Minsk—whatever made you hesitate—sort it out. Because where you’re going, hesitation gets people killed. I’d rather not lose another a person to Global Dynamix.”
“You won’t, sir,” I say. “I promise.”
I close the door behind me, the file clutched to my chest. Through the window, I can see the River House across the Thames, all that bulletproof glass glinting in the weak October sun. It’s funny to think that, ultimately, someone in there just decided my fate, and if anything should go wrong, they’ll disavow any knowledge of my actions. They’ll disavow that I was ever a person at all.
Everyone is gathered in the kitchen alcove when I approach: Bayo, Kat, Cal, Fi, even Tabby hovering with a fresh pot of tea. They all look up eagerly.
“Well?” Fi demands, practically vibrating. “Did we get it?”
I look at each of them in turn. My team. My family, in all the ways that count. The people who’ve dragged me out of burning buildings, held the line when everything went sideways, and pretended not to notice when I fell apart after Minsk.
“Start packing,” I say. “We’re going to New York, baby.”
Fi claps. “Hell yeah, you are.” Bayo grins and starts typing on his phone, already booking us flights, probably. Cal raises his mug in a silent toast, and for a moment, his eyes meet mine with an encouraging nod.
Only Kat remains still, ,watching me with that cool, assessing gaze.
“You’re ready for this?” she asks quietly in Russian. A test, as always.
“Da,” I reply, matching her. “Ya gotova.”
She nods slowly. Then she gives me the tiniest ghost of a smile.
“Good,” she says, switching back to English. “Because if Van Veen is as smart as her file suggests, she’s going to eat you alive.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m just warning you.” Kat steps closer, close enough that only I can hear. “That woman isn’t just intelligent—she’s obsessed. With Vanguard, with her work, with control. Obsessed people are dangerous, Mia. They don’t follow the rules.”
“Then good thing we don’t either.”
“No, but we know we’re breaking them. She thinks she’s above them entirely.” Kat holds my gaze. “Don’t let her get in your head. And don’t let him get anywhere else. Not unless you get the kill order.”
Before I can respond, she’s already walking away, phone in hand, coordinating logistics.
I stand in the middle of our ramshackle headquarters, surrounded by the smell of burnt toast and Earl Grey, the weight of the file in my hands and everything else pressing down on my shoulders. In less than a week, I’ll be in New York, face-to-face again with a man who might be a hero or a weapon or something in between.
CHAPTER 5
VANGUARD
The hover car glides through Manhattan forty feet above street level, smooth and silent, the city sprawling beneath us like a circuit board of light. Below, the regular traffic crawls along in the old lanes—ground-bound vehicles for ground-bound people—while we float above it all in Global Dynamix’s latest toy. A Meridian-Class, they call it. One of twelve in existence, worth more than most apartment buildings in this city. The leather seats alone, made from rare yak hide that’s been pummeled into oblivion, probably cost more than Danny makes in a year.
I hate it.
Not the car itself, that’s fine. Cool, even. It’s what I imagined a flying car would be like when I was a little boy. No, it’s what it represents. Another reminder I’m not that little boy or even the man I once was, and I don’t belong down there anymore. That I’m not one of them. That every part of my life, down to how I get home at night, has to be a statement.
“You’re brooding,” Danny says from the driver’s seat—though ‘driver’ is generous when the car flies itself. He’s there for protocol, for appearances, for the insurance policy that is a human hand near the manual override. “I can hear you brooding. It’s very loud.”