Page 67 of Undercover Shadow
I saw the syringe too late. The sharp sting in my neck was followed by frost spreading from the injection site. My legs buckled as the drug hit my system—something fast-acting, probably midazolam or another benzodiazepine.
As my vision fractured, I managed to pull off my earring and let it fall. It hit the stone with a tiny sound that seemed to echo in my fading consciousness.
I tried to fight, but my body had stopped obeying as I was lifted and carried.
Tag, I’m sorry. For lying. For going around you. Please find me.
Darkness pulled me under—absolute and final—and everything went black.
My consciousness returned in layers of pain. My skull pounded while my mouth stayed dry, and my vision swam when I tried to open my eyes. The smell of mildew told me I was still at Brodick, that they hadn’t moved me far.
Stone walls rose on all sides when I forced my eyes to focus, and narrow windows showed darkness outside. Zip ties cut into my wrists behind me, while my ankles were bound to the legs of a heavy wooden chair. It was made of solid oak, probably weighing more than I did, and bolted to the floor—someone had prepared this space for holding prisoners.
My neck ached where the needle had gone in, and bruises were forming on my arms where they’d grabbed me. But nothing was broken and nothing was bleeding, which meant they wanted me alive, at least for the time being.
A table against the far wall held a computer terminal. Its screen showed what looked like deployment codes and geographical coordinates—Scotland, Northern England, Wales with red marks indicating major cities like London, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Manchester, and Cardiff as target zones.
I pulled against the restraints, testing their strength. The zip ties were law enforcement grade, designed to hold up to two hundred and fifty pounds of pressure. I could break them given time and leverage, but doing so would make noise and alert my captors. The chair’s construction prevented me from getting the angle I’d need anyway. Waiting and assessing what I was dealing with before making my move would be better.
Voices filtered through a door that muffled the conversation. Multiple men spoke with accents heavy enough to place them as local, but the words themselves stayed just out of reach. I did recognize one voice—MacLeod’s. He sounded agitated, like he was arguing with someone.
“—I told you this was moving too fast—” His voice rose enough to carry.
“You’re in no position to question the timeline.” Another Scottish voice, cultured and icy.
Footsteps sounded outside the door, and a key turned in the lock.
My spine went rigid, I pulled my shoulders back, and lifted my chin. Every line of my body declared that I was still dangerous, still a threat, still someone who would fight given half a chance.
The door swung open.
MacLeod entered first. His shoulders were hunched forward, and his hands stayed loose at his sides. Then, another man entered. Everything else faded to background noise when he stopped inside.
He was older and wore an expensive suit that was probably custom tailored. Authority lived in every line of his body, in the way he moved, in the way MacKenzie, MacLeod, and Dalgleish deferred to him without a word. This man was in charge, giving the orders they followed.
His face was familiar. I’d seen him before, or perhaps his photo, but the drugs still clouding my system made it hard to place him. The shape of his features, the way he carried himself, the cultured affectation that emerged when he spoke—all made my skin prickle.
He stepped forward and studied me as he was examining a specimen. “Agent Nassar. Welcome.” He clasped his hands behind his back and moved closer. “I apologize for the restraints. They are a necessary precaution. I’m sure you understand.”
He was pleasant and almost warm, as if we were meeting for tea instead of in a castle where I sat bound to a chair.
I kept my voice level. “I understand you’re making a mistake.”
His brow rose. “Oh? How so?”
“Every MI6 and Unit 23 operative in Scotland will converge on this location at any moment. You should run while you can.”
“Your emergency beacon.” He gestured to the clutch on the table near the computer I’d noticed. “Yes, we’re aware youactivated it. In fact, we’re counting on it. Your handler will be here soon enough, I imagine.”
The way he said “handler” made my blood chill.
“Who are you?”
His expression shifted to satisfaction. “You may call me Janus.”
The air left my lungs. The mastermind stood in front of me, close enough that I could see the lines around eyes that suggested sixty-some years of life. This was the man who’d orchestrated everything—Fallon Wallace, the weapons, all of it.
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” He circled my chair slowly, like a predator sizing up prey. “Your work in Damascus was impressive. You were thorough when you connected Fallon Wallace to Chimera. Quite clever.” He paused behind me, where I couldn’t see him. “Though you did discover rather more than I’d have preferred.”
