Page 1 of Code Name: Reaper
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REAPER
Charity Beaudoin. Code Name Amaryllis. The NSA operative who’d made every joint op feel like psychological warfare had vanished, and I was about to eat crow asking for help to find her.
She’d been gone nine fucking days since the Montenegro debacle, and since, I’d burned through every contact, every favor, every resource tracking her across half of Europe. Professional channels, black market informants, and the assets I’d cultivated over years of fieldwork all came up empty. Like she’d dissolved into the ether.
Which meant she was so deep underground that finding her would require resources I didn’t have access to anymore. But the coalition did.
“What’s your plan?” Blackjack glanced over at me as we drove through the Surrey countryside.
“Walk in. Request help. Try not to get thrown out on my ass for abandoning my assignment to chase after a rogue agent.”
“That’s not a plan. That’s career suicide with extra steps.”
What choice did I have, though? In the last twenty-four hours, I’d received encrypted messages from her—fragmented breadcrumbs about Minerva Protocol, suspicious communications, details that meant jack shit if the people hunting her found her before I did.
All because she’d staged her own disappearance instead of following the rules or arranging for backup.
Her latest text sat on my phone like a live grenade—Aldrich is coming for me. She knows about the proof. Trust no one from Minerva. Save Mercury first.
Radio silence since. Typical. The woman who questioned every decision I’d ever made had finally gotten herself into a situation she couldn’t get out of on her own.
The smart play would’ve been to let the NSA handle their own asset. File a report, wash my hands of the whole mess, and return to work that didn’t involve babysitting self-destructive agents with authority issues.
Instead, I’d stupidly quit my job and burned bridges with half the intelligence community, all because I couldn’t stomach the thought of Amaryllis getting executed while I sat in meetings, discussing resource allocation.
The fact that I’d made her survivalmyfucking problem pissed me off more than her recklessness.
“You sure about this approach?” Blackjack white-knuckled the steering wheel as we pulled through the gates of the estate that served as the UN Coalition Against Human Trafficking’s headquarters.
“No.” I stared out the window, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. “But Agent Beaudoin has blown her cover investigating a rogue spy network, and I can’t leave an agent behind. Even one who’s too fucking smart for her own good.” I checked the secure drive in my jacket—surveillance photos, financial records, and communication intercepts that painted that network’s founder as a traitor. “She gathered this information. I’m going to make sure it counts for something.”
“And if they won’t help. What will you do? Take them all out?”
While he was joking now, my brother knew me well enough to recognize when I was calculating how many people I’d have to kill to clean up someone else’s mess. After all, it was how I’d gotten my code name.
“Then, she dies because I couldn’t convince a room full of the world’s best intelligence agents to launch a rescue mission for someone who went rogue.”
“She got under your skin.”
“She’s an asset in hostile territory who needs our help. That’s it. It isn’t personal. It’s duty.”
“Bullshit.” His sideways look was sharp. “You spent half your time in Montenegro arguing with her about methodology and the other half, analyzing her approach like you were solving a puzzle.”
“She’s good at her job,” I said through gritted teeth. “Too good. That’s why she’s survived this long and why she needs extraction ahead of her luck running out.”
“You keep telling yourself that.” Blackjack cut the engine. “Last chance to walk away…”
Through the manor’s windows, I could see an active briefing in progress. Perfect. Nothing like interrupting planning to request resources for an unauthorized rescue mission.
“No.” I shouldered my gear bag. “Agent Beaudoin is behind enemy lines, with critical information that directly impacts the coalition’s main objectives. We need to find her before hostile forces eliminate a valuable asset.”
Gravel crunched under my boots as Blackjack and I got out of the SUV and approached the Georgian manor that had been my home base for the last two years. Familiar carved limestone lions flanked an entrance behind which better agents than me made worse decisions.
Blackjack reached for the door first and pushed it open with enough force for it to swing wide and hit the wall with a solid thud that cut through the noise from inside.
Conversations stopped mid-sentence as we entered. Every head turned toward us, but I didn’t give a shit about their surprise or irritation.
