Page 21 of Rogue Doll

22:14. Nothing.

22:47. Still nothing.

My nerves are strung tighter than a junkie three days into withdrawal. The silence in the apartment feels loaded, dangerous, like the moment before lightning strikes.

"Status check," I whisper, needing to hear a human voice before I crawl out of my skin.

Nothing.

"Killion? Alpha team? Someone better fucking answer."

Silence.

Ice slithers down my spine. I move to the window, trying to spot the building where Alpha team should be positioned. The scope glint of a sniper rifle should be visible, a reassurance that I'm not alone in this.

Nothing but darkness.

"Comms are down," I say to the empty air, already moving toward the weapons cache concealed in the kitchen island. "Going to backup protocol."

The hidden panel slides open with a soft click, revealing the compact SIG Sauer and extra magazines I'd stashed earlier. I check the chambered round out of habit, though I know it's loaded. The weight feels good in my hand, solid and certain in a situation rapidly deteriorating into chaos.

That's when I hear it—the soft snick of the service door lock disengaging.

Too soon. Too fucking soon.

This isn't a surveillance operation anymore. It's a breach.

I kill the lights with a sweep of my hand across the wall panel, plunging the apartment into darkness broken only by the city glow filtering through the windows. The darkness is a friend, a lover, wrapping around me as I slide behind the kitchen island, gun ready, breath controlled to near silence.

The door opens with a whisper of well-oiled hinges. Someone's disabled the security alert that should have triggered. Someone who knows the system. Someone who had access.

Two figures slip in—shadows within shadows, moving with the predatory grace of professionals. Their silhouettes are bulkier than standard—body armor under tactical blacks, night vision goggles giving them alien, insectoid profiles. Thefirst carries a suppressed MP5, the second what looks like a specialized breaching shotgun.

Not a kill team. An extraction team.

They're here to take me, not eliminate me. Volkov wants his answers fresh from the source.

"Clear," the first one whispers, the word barely a breath.

"Motion sensors show target in primary bedroom," the second responds, jerking his chin toward the far hall.

They think I'm asleep. They're in for a rude awakening.

I ease the safety off, calculating angles, timing, risk factors. Two against one, but they don't know I'm ready. Surprise is my only advantage, and it won't last long.

A third shadow slips in—taller, leaner, moving with an elegant economy that screams higher-level threat. Something about the silhouette tickles my memory, a nagging sense of recognition.

"Check the bedroom," the newcomer orders softly. "I'll secure the main area. Remember, we need her alive and relatively undamaged."

That voice. I know that voice.

The two operatives move toward the bedroom, weapons ready, while the third begins a methodical sweep of the living area. I track their movements, heart hammering against my ribs so hard I'm certain they must hear it.

The third operative passes the kitchen island, close enough I can smell the expensive cologne beneath the tactical gear. Close enough to see his profile in the dim city light filtering through the windows.

I know that profile.

Director Harlow.

---