Page 63 of Blind Prophet

My pulse quickens slightly. This is an opportunity for information extraction through casual conversation. The crash has given me an opening I couldn’t have planned better; he’s emotional, unguarded, and ready to talk. The operative in me recognizes the opportunity while guilt twists my heart at the manipulation.

A gust of wind barrels through the woods and cuts straight through my clothes.

“Let’s lie down facing each other,” he says, settling onto his side. “We’ll drape the blanket over us. Let our body heat work to keep us warm.”

I eye the space between us, envisioning the scenario. It doesn’t strike me as wise. There’s not a ton of space on the flat part of the boulder, and we’d need to lie close. It’s not a problem, except that seconds ago, I wished he’d put me back onto his lap, and I’m emotional after the crash and prone to slipping down a familiar spiral that won’t end well.

“Clothes will stay on.” He’s still good at reading my mind.

“Fine,” I say, attempting to overlook his exasperation. This isn’t a normal situation for either of us.

We settle down onto the blanket, our bottom halves aligned for warmth. We both use our arms to prop up our heads, and there’s space between our top halves so we can talk.

“Too bad the chopper didn’t have pillows.”

“Yes, I might add a tent to the gear in my next one.”

“You’re going to keep flying?” He’s out of his mind.

“Yes, I am. That was an easy question. Now, it’s my turn.”

He grins. I’ve always loved his boyish grins. An unrestricted curve of the lips morphs the business titan into an everyday man.

“Who is Luke?”

Whoa. Did he read my messages?

“Someone I work with. I already told you I’m not dating anyone.” I narrow my eyes and scoff. “That feels like a wasted question.” But his loss. Now, it’s my turn.

“Are you a part of a global alliance or syndicate?”

I keep my voice casual, but I observe every microexpression, every pause, every shift in his posture. His eyes widen slightly—there it is, the tell we look for in intelligence work. Not surprise at the question, but recognition.

“I’m a member of many business associations.”

Classic deflection technique—technically true but intentionally vague. He’s dancing around the truth.

“To maintain global market stability.”

The addendum is another beautifully crafted non-answer. At the agency, we called these “surface truths”—statements that sound complete but leave room for darker implications.

His hand shifts underneath the blanket, and he palms my hip.

It dawns on me that Arrow’s intel might be accurate. He’s evading.

I’m not in danger. He’d never hurt me. But what would he do to others?

“Why’d you leave the CIA?”

“I don’t believe you fully answered my question.”

He smirks. This line of questioning doesn’t concern him, or he’d be stone-faced.

“To expand on my answer, yes. There’s a group of sector leaders who share information and resources, and I’m a part of it. They refer to themselves as a syndicate, or, depending on who you’re talking to, an alliance. My father named it Obsidian, but few use the term.”

“What’s the objective?”

He squeezes my hip playfully. “Not so fast. My turn. The CIA? You left, right?”

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