Page 12 of Roar Me Like You Mean It
“You can call me Vega,” the voice replies. “I used to work for one of his subsidiaries before I learned what was really happening behind the doors. If you’re smart, you’ll stop. But if you’re stubborn, you’ll want to hear this.”
“I’m listening.”
“There’s a facility in Zurich,” he says. “Officially, it doesn’t exist. Unofficially, it’s where they send anyone who sees too much. Not employees or whistleblowers. Others. Not human.”
The line clicks off before I can respond.
I stare at the phone for a long moment, letting the words settle. Not human.
Marcy studies me, cautious. “What did they say?”
“They gave me a location,” I answer. “And a warning.”
She frowns. “Jennifer?—”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. This isn’t just another case. I don’t like the way this feels.”
“That makes two of us.”
She waits, arms folded, eyes sharp. She knows me well enough to see that my mind is already racing past the conversation, already locking into the next step.
“You’re going, aren’t you?” she says finally.
“Yes.”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“Don’t argue with me.”
I set the coffee down and meet her eyes directly. “I need you here, Marcy. I need someone to cover the ground if things go sideways. If I vanish for more than forty-eight hours, you hit every channel we’ve got. DOJ, Interpol, press leaks if you have to. Don’t try to save me. Burn the house down.”
She stares at me, breathing hard, then finally nods once. “Fine. But if you don’t check in, I’m not waiting forty-eight.”
“Fair enough.”
I pull the Zurich file closer, flip through the fake invoices again, and circle the address embedded in the third page. It’ssubtle, buried as a routing code, but it’s there. My heart thumps once, heavy.
“I’ll book the flight tonight,” I say.
By the time the office empties, the night sky is pressing heavy against the windows, the city below a scatter of lights that look more like stars than the real ones ever do. I stay until the halls are silent, until the cleaning crew stops bothering to knock, until my eyes blur from staring at lines of text. Then I finally gather my things, slip on the jacket, and step into the night.
Home is a glass box overlooking Dupont, clean lines and too much empty space. I don’t cook, I don’t decorate, I barely sleep. I live in files and flights and borrowed hours. The apartment is just where I set my shoes down long enough to remember I’m not made of steel.
I leave the bag by the door and walk directly to the balcony, city air washing over me. It smells of rain, ozone, and something faintly metallic. I hold onto the railing until my knuckles ache, then let go, pour a large glass of wine, and force myself to sit.
I should be writing notes, securing contacts, building the skeleton of the Zurich trip. But exhaustion pulls heavier than discipline tonight. I strip out of the dress from the gala and change into cotton shorts and a tank, leaving the glass half-finished on the nightstand when I finally fall into bed.
Sleep doesn’t come soft. It’s violent.
I dream of fire. Not the kind that burns buildings, but the kind that tears through forests, hungry and bright, devouring oxygen and silence until there’s nothing left but heat.
The flames lick across the edges of my vision, and within them I see claws. Not neat, not human, not anything I can explain. They tear through shadows, scrape against stone, drip with something too dark to be anything but blood.
There’s a roar, low and guttural, the kind of sound that reverberates through bone, not ears. It shakes me to my knees.
