Page 44 of Dark Rebel's Mystery

The guard took the card and held it up for a closer look. In the dim outer courtyard light, the photograph's details were murky at best, but he tilted the ID toward the sun. He leaned forward, tipping Kyra's chin upward with a rough, lingering touch that sent a hot wave of anger through her, along with a surge of panic.

"You look different from your picture," he said, his tone dripping with suspicion.

Kyra willed her body not to tense or recoil, even though part of her itched to twist his wrist until he screamed. "The picture is old," she murmured softly, lowering her gaze to the dusty ground. "I have given birth to two children since it was taken. That takes a toll on a woman."

His gaze flicked between her and the photograph, lingering on her face. After what seemed like an eternity, he dropped his hand with a grunt, probably finding her meek posture convincing.

"Arms out," he barked, stepping aside and motioning for a female to take over.

Kyra obeyed silently, extending her arms and bracing herself for the pat-down. The female was one she was familiar with, an old hag who liked to parrot the regime's vile propaganda and act as an enforcer of the modesty rules.

Luckily, the two of them had never been face to face, so the woman didn't know her. She should know Parisa, though.

Kyra remained silent and kept her eyes down as the woman began patting down her shoulders and then moved down her sides. Her pouch was thoroughly inspected, and the woman nodded with approval when she saw the prayer beads.

Kyra had no weapons on her—no knives or guns, not even a sharpened hairpin. For this mission, her only defense was her own body and her training, her enhanced strength and reflexes that she hoped to conceal unless absolutely necessary.

She was here to learn and observe, not to stir things up.

The pat-down felt semi-thorough, as if the female was still sleepy and not in the mood to do her job. "She's clean," she said.

The male guard handed her ID back. "Go on," he ordered. "Report to Madame Afshar in the kitchen. She's short-staffed today."

Parisa was on the cleaning staff, which worked much better for what Kyra needed to do, but she wasn't going to argue. She'd start in the kitchen and slip out as soon as she could.

Ducking her head again in a show of thanks and obedience, she tucked the ID into her pouch and hurried through the tall, steel-reinforced gate.

Gravel crunched underfoot as she passed a series of parked military Jeeps. The building's high walls were topped by coils of razor wire, which had been added after her team's prisoner extraction.

An undercurrent of tension brushed against her heightened senses as she moved deeper inside the compound, and she tried to ignore the chill creeping along her spine. Somewhere in there, the new prisoners were being held. She could almost smell the faint metallic tang in the air—a smell that evoked memories of antiseptic hallways, metal restraints, and the glint of needles in the asylum, of which she only had vague memories.

Her pendant, hidden beneath layers of clothing, pulsed with a soft warmth. The subtle vibration seemed to resonate with her heartbeats, drawing her attention toward the eastern wing.

Before she followed that pull, though, she needed to report to the kitchen.

29

KYRA

The kitchen was chaotic, with staff in aprons and headscarves jostling around one another, shouting instructions and cursing in the early-morning rush. Steam hissed from large metal pots, and the scent of freshly baked bread permeated the air. Despite the frantic energy, the place was warm and inviting, and if Kyra hadn't been on a mission she might have enjoyed it.

Madame Afshar, the formidable head cook, was easy to spot. She had a presence that matched her stout figure, barking orders at an unfortunate young woman trying to scrub the counter with one hand while juggling a stack of baking trays with the other. When she spotted Kyra, she waved her over and pointed to a large tray loaded with breakfast items. "Take this to the officers' mess—third floor, West Wing. And hurry up about it!"

When the head cook added two steaming pots of tea, Kyra pretended to stagger under the weight, earning a smirk from the woman who had no doubt intended to test her.

Keeping her eyes downcast, Kyra murmured an apology.

"Just go!" Madame Afshar commanded, her voice echoing off the tiled walls. "Keep the officers' cups full and the mess clean. I don't want to hear any complaints about you."

Kyra bobbed her head in a silent "Yes, ma'am" and slipped away, carefully maneuvering around the other kitchen staff members who were moving between the boiling pots and hissing pans like an army of drunken flies.

No one gave her more than a cursory glance. Maids and kitchen workers came and went at all hours, and she was just one more in a never-ending stream of worker bees.

Clutching the tray, Kyra began the climb up several flights of concrete stairs to the West Wing's third floor. Even burdened as she was, her enhanced strength helped her navigate the steps quickly, and as she ascended, she caught snatches of conversation from behind closed doors—most of it meaningless chatter: complaints about duty rosters, arguments over petty grievances, and mostly gossip.

Then, a distinct male voice pierced the general noise. It was slightly accented as if Farsi wasn't his native tongue, although he spoke it flawlessly.

"Turmor is re-growing his toes," he said. "The idiot stepped on a mine. What did you expect to happen to him?"

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