Page 22 of Code Name: Reaper
“What happened?”
“A black sedan pulled up to the hotel’s side entrance. I observed as Prism emerged from the door and got into the vehicle. No security detail, by the way.”
“Interesting.”
“I followed at a distance, weaving through London traffic as the sedan headed toward the industrial district?—”
“Hold up. Another stolen car?”
“No, not stolen.” When she sneered, I almost laughed. “I borrowed it—legitimately. Anyway, she finally stopped at an abandoned warehouse complex.”
“The exact type of place where traitors meet their handlers.”
“I parked around the corner, approached on foot, then climbed to a vantage point in an adjacent building. Through the grimy warehouse windows, I could see two figures in the dim interior.”
“Aldrich and Vasiliev, I presume.”
She raised her hands as if she were holding a camera. “Click, click, click, and I had my proof.”
“Too far to pick up audio, though.”
She smirked. “Have you forgotten who I work for?”
“Ah. Satellite?”
“Combined with a laser mic.”
When I said, “Good job,” she had the same bug-swallowing reaction she’d displayed earlier. “What about the correspondence where Prism suggested the elimination of Mercury as a necessary precaution?”
“I had help with that.”
She blurted it out too fast, like she’d revealed more than she intended. I waited for her to elaborate, watching her face change—the competent agent who’d just laid out hours of surveillance work vanished, replaced by someone who’d made a critical error in judgment.
Her shoulders drew inward, she closed off, and she studied her tablet with renewed focus that screamed “conversation over.” The walls were going up, reinforced with titanium.
Then she glanced at me again, like she was about to start an argument with me over something—anything—to deflect from whatever vulnerability she’d unintentionally shown. I recognized the behavior now. Every time she opened up, even slightly, she’d find a reason to get pissed at me.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Right. Because you always look like you want to start a fight over ‘nothing.’”
She raised her chin. “I don’t want to start a fight.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
She turned to face me fully. “You know what? Maybe I do want to start a fight. At least then we’d be talking about something real, instead of dancing around whatever this is.”
“What, what is?”
“Forget it.”
Happy to havethatconversation end, I turned my head and feigned sleep, occasionally glancing over at her to see what she was doing. Her fingers moved across the tablet screen, but then went the opposite direction, as if she was rereading the page. Her jaw was set in the stubborn line I was learning to recognize, and every few minutes, she’d glance my way to see if I was still pretending to be unconscious.
When I saw she’d finally appeared to drift off, I let go of some of my anxiety.
Why did it always have to be that way between us? Not that I wasn’t equally guilty of antagonizing her, like I had whenI mentioned her dream. Which reminded me—other than with mortification, she hadn’t reacted to my question. No denial, no outrage, just embarrassment.
