Allison pushed through the entrance, the heavy scent of bleach and rubbing alcohol hitting her lungs. She walked straight down the narrow hallway, her boots silent on the linoleum floor.

Dr. Alistair Cromwell looked up from his microscope. His white hair was a mess. When he saw her, the deep wrinkles on his forehead pulled into a harsh frown.

Allison didn't wait for him to speak. She shrugged off her heavy jacket, tossing it onto a plastic chair. She rolled up the sleeve of her black t-shirt, exposing her pale left wrist.

The black band secured to her skin was pulsing with a faint, steady red light.

Alistair grabbed a specialized digital thermometer from his desk. He pressed the metal tip hard against her carotid artery. He stared at the digital readout. The blood drained from his face.

"You're abusing the suppressants again," Alistair snapped, his voice shaking with anger. "Your core temp is lethal. You keep this up, your heart will stop before you hit twenty."

Allison's eyes were completely empty. "I'm going back to Aethelgard. I don't have time to sleep it off."

Alistair let out a heavy, defeated sigh. He walked to a locked filing cabinet. "Speaking of Aethelgard... one of your old contacts from Langley sent a ghost signal. He intercepted chatter on the dark web. Partial coordinates for an abandoned lab tied to the 319 Project."

The air in the room instantly dropped ten degrees.

Allison's pupils dilated. A suffocating, violent aura exploded from her body. Her chest tightened so hard she couldn't breathe.

She snatched the slip of paper from Alistair's hand before he could even offer it. She shoved it deep into her pocket.

"Stop digging, Alistair," she warned, her voice a low, terrifying rasp. "If they trace you, you're dead."

Alistair didn't argue. He opened a small refrigerated lockbox and pulled out a glass vial filled with a glowing blue liquid. There was no label. He handed it to her.

"Only if you are dying," he said strictly.

Allison took the vial. She slid it into the hidden pocket inside her jacket. She turned and walked out of the exam room without another word.

She pushed the front door open, stepping out into the bright afternoon sun.

Her peripheral vision caught a flash of black metal.

She stopped. She slowly turned her head. Parked at the end of the street, half-hidden in the shadow of an old oak tree, was a black SUV. It looked ordinary.

But Allison's eyes locked onto the license plate.

She felt a cold smirk pull at the corner of her mouth. He came back.

She didn't run. She didn't hide. She walked with slow, deliberate steps straight across the street, heading directly for the driver's side window.

Inside the SUV, Pierce saw her coming. Panic flared in his chest. His hand instinctively dropped to his waist, fingers brushing the grip of his concealed Glock.

"Don't move," Graham commanded from the back seat, his voice sharp.

Allison reached the SUV. She slammed her palm flat against the roof of the car. She leaned down, putting her face inches from the tinted glass. The window slowly rolled down.

She stared right past Pierce, locking eyes with Graham in the back.

"Federal Government internal sequence," Allison said, her voice dripping with boredom. "That plate prefix belongs to the D.C. motor pool."

Pierce's jaw dropped. His hand froze on his gun. That was classified information.

Allison didn't stop. She shifted her gaze to Graham's chest. "And that slight bulge under your left lapel? Secret Service standard-issue tactical holster. You're printing."

Graham's eyes widened a fraction of an inch. His heart gave a hard, sudden thump against his ribs.

"And the red clay on the bottom of your shoes," Allison continued, her tone mocking. "You only find that specific soil composition near Quantico. So unless you went hiking in a restricted military zone for fun..."

She stood up straight, slapping the roof of the car twice.

"Stop playing spy games in my town," she sneered. "You suck at it."

She turned around and walked away. Her posture was relaxed, completely unbothered by the fact that she had just humiliated two highly trained operatives.

Pierce swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Who the hell is she? Is she an enemy asset?"

Graham stared at her retreating back. His blood was rushing in his ears. A dark, obsessive heat flared in his chest. "Spies don't blow their cover to prove a point. She's something else."

Graham's encrypted phone buzzed in his hand. He looked down at the screen.

It was the report from his intelligence division.

SUBJECT: PINE CREEK GARAGE OWNER.

STATUS: S-CLASS ENCRYPTION. ACCESS DENIED.

Graham stared at the flashing red warning. He slowly twisted the black ring on his pinky finger. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.

"Cancel the flight to Washington," Graham ordered. "We're staying."

Chapter 4

You might like