Page 86 of Code Name: Reaper
The younger looked to be in his forties, with a compact build and dark hair cropped short. His eyes moved constantly—doors, windows, other patrons—never settling on any one point for more than a few seconds. Both men wore unremarkable clothing that would blend into any European city.
I approached the table, my hand on my readied weapon while Reaper covered me.
“Where is she?”
The older man’s gaze swept the lobby. “We’ll take you to her.”
“Proof of life first,” said Reaper.
The second guy pulled out a secure phone and played a brief audio message. Mercury’s voice, speaking the code phrase, “protein bars,” with today’s date.
“We’ll follow. Give us the coordinates.”
“Negative,” the first man responded to Reaper without meeting his eye.
I studied both men as they stood, weighing the risks. Mercury’s voice on that recording had been unmistakable, but everything about this felt like the trap Reaper had suggested it would be.
“How long have you known her?” I asked.
“Since Minerva’s inception.”
The couple by the window was watching us now. The businessman at the bar had shifted position. Too much attention for a simple conversation.
“We leave now or not at all,” the second man said.
When I looked at Reaper and he gave a single nod, I told them we were ready.
They led us through the hotel’s service entrance to avoid the main lobby. A black SUV waited in the narrow alley behind the hotel, engine running, its windows tinted dark.
The drive took us away from Lausanne’s city center, up winding roads, toward what looked like an industrial area outside the city. Warehouses and manufacturing facilities dotted the landscape, most of them appearing abandoned or only partially used.
I memorized the route. A gas station with security cameras. A construction site with heavy equipment that could provide cover. A small village with narrow streets.
I glanced at my watch. We’d been driving for twenty minutes, taking us well outside the city limits. “How much farther?”
“We’re almost there,” the driver replied.
We turned into a gravel parking area beside a large concrete building that might once have been a manufacturing plant. No other vehicles were visible. No signs of recent activity except for tire tracks in the gravel leading to and from the building’s loading dock.
As we approached the building’s entrance, every instinct I possessed started screaming warnings. The remote location. The lack of visible security. The way our escorts had positioned themselves to control our movement.
“This isn’t right,” I whispered as the driver produced a key for the heavy metal door.
“I know.” Reaper’s hand shifted closer to his gun.
The interior was dimly lit, the industrial fixtures casting harsh shadows on concrete walls stained with decades of manufacturing residue. Our footsteps echoed as they led us deeper into the building, past abandoned machinery and stacks of empty pallets.
But it was too late to abort. The door was already open, and they were gesturing us inside. The second man stood close behind us, his hand near his jacket. More men approached, patting us down and removing our weapons and phones.
The first man motioned to a door. “She’s waiting in the next room.”
We rounded a corner into a large open area. High windows near the ceiling let in thin streams of sunlight that illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air.
And there, in the center of the space, I saw a figure sitting calmly in a metal chair.
Not Mercury.
Eleanor Aldrich looked up as we entered. She rose gracefully, smoothing her jacket, and smiled.
