Page 70 of Over the Edge

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

Moreau paced the stage. “Visibility is a weakness,” he said conversationally, hands clasped behind his back. “The moment you can be seen, you can be tracked. Targeted. Eliminated. The true advantage in warfare isn’t superior firepower—it’s surprise.”

He stopped at the edge of the platform. “The Ghoststep Cloak neutralizes that weakness.”

A blur coalesced out of thin air beside Moreau, the human silhouette slowly resolving from shimmer to solid as the cloak deactivated. The figure wore a sleek, skin-tight suit the color of gunmetal. The helmet was blank and reflective, but not bulky. Almost elegant. In one gloved hand, the figure held a combat knife. The blade hovered a breath from Moreau’s throat.

He didn’t even blink.

“This operative has been on stage the entire time, three feet from me. Would anyone like to guess how many of your personal security details noticed him?”

Silence.

Then a low, nervous chuckle from the crowd.

The operative stepped back, sheathing the knife with a crisp motion, and saluted.

Moreau gestured to him. “Equipped with adaptive metamaterial that bends light, disperses infrared signatures, and dampens sound, the Ghoststep Cloak renders its wearer functionally invisible to sight, heat, motion sensors, and even acoustic detection. Ideal for infiltration, exfiltration, or… eliminating liabilities without alerting the rest of the room.”

A bead of sweat slid down the temple of the Saudi prince.

I coached my expression into mild interest even as my pulse kicked wildly against my throat. This wasn’t a weapon of mass destruction. It was quieter. More insidious. And arguably more terrifying.

Because unlike missiles or drones, this one could bestanding behind you already.

“Next,” Moreau said, after the Ghoststep operator had walked off stand. “Here’s something for those who prefer a more... personal touch.”

He held up what looked like an epipen. “The Neural Disruptor. Elegant, discreet, and utterly effective.” He smiled at the audience. “I’ll need a volunteer.”

His gaze zeroed in on me.

My pulse stuttered. Every instinct screamed at me to refuse, but refusal wasn’t an option. Not when I was playing the role of an arms dealer eager to purchase Moreau’s deadly innovations. Not when Halston’s gaze was burning into the back of my skull.

“The lovely Ms. Deveraux,” Moreau purred, extending his hand toward me. “Would you do us the honor?”

I rose with deliberate slowness, arranging my features into a mask of bored curiosity. The walk to the stage felt endless, my Louboutins clicking against the polished floor. I had no doubt Flynn was cursing me with every step I took toward Moreau.

“Stand here, if you would,” Moreau directed. “This won’t hurt. Much.”

The audience chuckled.

I gave him a cool smile. “I’ve heard that before.”

My comment earned a few more chuckles. Good. Let them believe I was fearless.

Moreau circled me slowly, the disruptor still in hand. “What’s remarkable about this little device,” he said to the crowd, “isn’t just its efficiency. It’s the silence.”

I never saw it coming.

A faint tap at the base of my neck. That was all.

Then everything seized.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even blink. I was locked inside my own body, aware of the stage lights, the weight of their stares, the chill of the air on my skin. A scream built in my chest, but couldn’t escape.

Only my eyes worked. And they were wide.

Moreau circled me like a docent in a gallery, his voice silk-smooth. “Complete neuromuscular disruption. The subject is fully conscious, still breathing, but otherwise physically paralyzed. The duration is adjustable from thirty seconds to fifteen minutes, and it leaves no external signs, no permanent damage, and no residual trace in the bloodstream. No evidence it was ever used.”

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