Page 12 of Rogue Doll

I swallow hard, the fear twisting, transforming—not gone, but changing into something else. Something electric. The same sick thrill I used to chase in club bathrooms with strangers' hands around my throat.

"Good," I say, straightening my spine. "Boring is worse than dead."

There it is—something like approval in Killion's eyes. Brief as a camera flash, but real.

"The man in the gray suit," Sienna says, pulling a tablet from somewhere in her tactical gear. "Can you describe him? Height, weight, distinguishing features?"

I close my eyes again, reconstructing him from memory. "Six-one, maybe 190. Athletic but not showy. Mid-forties. Eastern European features, possibly Russian or Ukrainian. No visible scars or tattoos. His watch was interesting—vintage Omega, the kind intelligence officers wore in the Cold War."

When I open my eyes, they're both staring at me.

"What?" I ask.

"Your observational detail," Killion says. "It's exceptional."

"I told you," I shrug. "I notice things. Especially about men. It's how I've survived this long."

Sienna slides the tablet across the table. On it is a grainy surveillance photo of a man matching my description, entering what looks like an embassy.

"Is this him?"

I study it, then nod. "That's him. Who is he?"

"Alexei Volkov," Killion says, the name heavy with history I don't understand yet. "Former FSB. Now private sector, which means he's more dangerous, not less."

"He's a cleaner," Sienna adds. "Among other things."

"A cleaner who got there after I left," I point out. "So either he was following Reese, or..."

"Or he was following you," Killion finishes.

The room seems to shrink, the red light pulsing like a wound.

"If he wanted me dead, I'd be dead," I reason, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds.

"Unless you weren't the target," Sienna says. "Yet."

"Enough," Killion cuts her off. "We're moving to containment protocol. Landry doesn't leave the facility untilwe know exactly what Volkov was doing there and who he's working for."

"Fuck that," I protest. "I'm not sitting in some underground bunker while?—"

"Yes, you are," Killion slams his palm on the table. "Unless you want to end up like Reese. Or worse."

"There's worse than a bullet to the brain?" I challenge.

His eyes lock with mine, hard as granite. "Much worse. And Volkov specializes in it."

The fear's back, but so is that other feeling—that dark, twisted excitement. The dance with death that's always turned me on more than it should.

"Fine," I concede, but I can't resist adding, "but when you figure out what's going on, I want in. This is my operation now too."

Killion snorts. "This isn't a democracy."

"No," I agree, leaning forward. "It's a mission. And I just proved I can get results no one else could. Volkov saw me with Reese, which means I'm already connected. Use me."

The double entendre hangs between us, deliberate and loaded.

"Use me," I repeat, voice dropping lower. "Or waste me. Your choice."

---