Page 20 of Roar Me Like You Mean It
I cross the room and slide into the chair opposite him, lowering my hood so he can see exactly who came to collect.
“Mr. Novak,” I say.
His gaze flickers, sharp with suspicion. “You shouldn’t use names here.”
“Then call me what you like. But we both know why I’m here.”
He glances at the door again, then leans closer. His voice is low, rough from years of cigarettes. “You think Thorne only builds weapons for men in deserts and jungles. You think his empire is built on profit and warlords. You don’t know the truth of it.”
I keep my tone steady. “Then tell me.”
He studies me for a moment, eyes narrowing as if weighing whether I’m strong enough to carry what he’s about to say. Then he exhales, a shudder that rattles all the way down to his hands.
“He funds soldiers, yes. Trains them, equips them. But not all of them are men.”
The words slide across the table like ice.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re not human,” he says flatly. “Not all. He builds paramilitary units out of them. Shifters. Wolves, lions, bears. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. They fight harder, heal faster, obey without question because they know he is stronger than all of them.”
The café feels smaller all of a sudden, the walls closing in with the weight of what I already suspected. The memories of the lab rush back. Those bodies in glass tanks, twisted shapes caught between human and something else. My pulse picks up, but I keep my voice even.
“You worked with them?”
“I arranged shipments, signed papers that moved weapons from one country to another. But the real shipments were always people. Thorne’s projects are not just about selling rifles. He’s building armies that no government can stand against. I left because I saw what he plans. He will not stop at warlords. He will not stop at mercenaries. He is consolidating.”
“Consolidating what?”
“Power,” Novak says. “The kind of power no one man should hold.”
His hands tremble as he pulls a folded piece of paper from his coat, sliding it across the table. Coordinates. A name. A date.
I tuck it into my pocket without breaking eye contact.
“You know he’ll come for you now,” I say.
“He already has,” Novak answers with a grim smile. “The only reason I’m alive is because I move too fast to pin down. But I won’t be alive much longer, not once he knows I talked to you. That’s why you need to leave this city before it’s too late.”
I rise slowly, pulling enough cash from my pocket to cover the untouched coffees. “Then you’d better keep moving, Mr. Novak. Because if you’re right, he’s already watching both of us.”
He doesn’t argue. He only nods once, bitter, and then slips out the side door without looking back.
I leave by the front, walking quickly into the night air, the paper burning against my leg like a live coal.
Back at the hotel, I don’t bother with lights. I sit on the edge of the bed, laptop open, secure VPN running, and begin drafting the report. Every detail Novak shared, every line of coordinates,every whisper about paramilitary shifters goes into the file. My fingers fly across the keys, the rhythm a drumbeat against the silence of the room.
When it’s finished, I encrypt the report, layer upon layer, then send it through the DOJ’s hidden channels, the same system I used before. My chest loosens when the confirmation pops up. The file is away.
I lean back, rubbing my eyes, telling myself it’s progress even if it feels like standing at the edge of a cliff.
Then the confirmation vanishes.
I sit up straight, staring at the screen as if blinking will bring it back. The message isn’t there. The file isn’t there. The system refreshes itself to a blank screen, clean as though nothing happened.
My throat tightens.
I whisper the name I’ve been carrying like a curse. “Thorne.”
