Page 3 of Undercover Shadow
“Promise me something,” he’d said as we parted. “If anything happens to me, look after Leila.”
The request had caught me off guard—Idris wasn’t the type to ask for promises.
“You have my word.”
“I mean it, Tag. I’m all she has. If something goes wrong…”
“Nothing’s going to go wrong.”
But it had. And now, I understood—he’d known he was in danger. He’d been trying to tell me without saying it outright. And I’d failed to see it.
I’d read Leila’s file often enough to know it by heart. She and Idris had private tutors from a very young age, who preparedthem for foreign service. The two spoke several languages fluently, including Arabic, English, Russian, Farsi, and French. As they got older, they received military and intelligence training in combat and cryptanalysis as well.
“Her mother and I worked together when we were both starting out.” Typhon’s voice was rough when he approached me at the end of the service. “She asked me to look after both her children if anything happened to her or her husband. I failed at that, didn’t I?”
The weight of his words mirrored my own about Leila. I’d made a vow I’d do everything I could to keep, but what if I failed in the same way we’d all failed her brother?
After the few others left, Typhon and I approached her together.
“Ms. Nassar,” I said in a quiet tone. “I’m Niall MacTaggert, and this is Commander Marras. Your brother worked with us.”
She studied us, not attempting to hide that she read us the way her parents and brother had taught her, cataloging everything she saw—the way we stood and the weight of the weapons under our coats.
“I know who you are.” Her accent held traces of both London and Damascus. “Obsidian, Typhon, Infidel, and Savior.”
Code names. So Idris had trusted her with that much.
“He spoke of you often,” Typhon said. “Proudly.”
Her eyes locked on mine as she nodded.
“You’re one of us now,” Typhon added. “If you want to be.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“Your brother requested that you be given a position within MI6. Actually, Unit 23, but you’ll have to work your way up.”
She shook her head and raised her chin. “Unit 23 or nothing.”
Typhon’s eyes scrunched, and he studied her for several seconds. “Very well. First, you’ll attend training at our facilityin Scotland,” he agreed. “Obsidian will oversee your progress. If you pass the evaluation, you’re in.”
“When I pass,” she corrected. Not with arrogance, with certainty.
Neither Typhon nor I challenged her statement.
Less than a month later, she walked into the private training center. Six months after that, she proved herself in her first field op in Damascus.
Now,three years later, I still called her “kid” because it was the only way I could maintain distance from a woman who saw too much and made me feel too much.
I abandoned my car and ran after spotting her at King’s Cross station, where multiple cameras showed her moving amongst other late-night travelers. She wore a black jacket with the hood up, but I knew her walk. She was headed toward Platform 9, where the Highland Sleeper to Scotland was scheduled to depart in twelve minutes.
My hand closed around her upper arm when I caught her at the barriers just as she lifted her ticket to scan it. She didn’t flinch, didn’t struggle. Her muscles coiled under my grip, ready to strike if needed, but she held still.
“Running north?” I asked.
“I expected you hours ago.”
I smirked but didn’t respond, knowing she probably had.
