several bridges to be rebuilt within the next five to ten years.
Damon rises too. Rolls his head, making his neck crack several times, while making another pass in front of the billboards. “For today, we are,” he answers to my question. “Overall, I’d say we’re damn close.” He scrubs both hands down his face. “At least I fucking hope we are.”
A breeze of concern blows nettles through my belly. “Because…?”
“Because I was only given clearance to chase this shit for two weeks.” He lets his arms fall, stretching his hands and wiggling his fingers. Everything we have mapped out on the boards, he has also carefully recorded on his smart pad—meaning all ten of his digits have had no rest for the last week and a half. “We don’t have it all buttoned down, but it’s enough to make the higher-ups listen, and hopefully start on some action against all these fuckers.”
“When?”
“End of the week, likely,” he responds. “If not, first thing next week.”
It is not the answer I’d expected—but so much better. Relief hits me in a rush, making me drop back down to the couch. “Thank the Creator,” I blurt, also in a rush—but hurry to fix the fallout, as the man’s shoulders visibly slump. “Damon…hey…” Ugh. Why am I actually stumped here? He is a grown man. A spy, for the love of the powers. “It has…been real,” I stammer, going for one of Vy’s favorite trite-isms. “And it has been fun. Just cannot say it has been real fun, okay?”
He groans. Chuckles. Shakes his head. “Where the hell did you scrape that one up, Sancti girl?”
I grin. “Somewhere in Sancti, I think.”
“Right.”
He rocks back on his heels. A long moment stretches by, thick with us both scuffing toes into the carpet, awkward as a pair of tortoises on a dance floor.
Finally, I query softly, “There is no spy movie precedent for this, is there?”
“Not a damn one,” Damon mutters.
“Or any obscure CIA handbook thing?”
“Only if one of us was getting ready to diffuse a bomb first.”
Tick…
Tock…
The pounds at the door, three demanding blows in a row, lurch me to my feet, heartbeat surging to my throat. Though Damon’s reaction is not so skittish, his face creases and his body tenses. In seconds, His Court lion takes over. He prowls across the room, silencing me with a finger at his lips—stunning me by brandishing a revolver that seems to appear from nowhere.
Three seconds. Three knocks. And everything has changed. Less than a minute ago, we were sitting here laughing about spy movies. Rune Kavill was just a black and white name up on a board. Now, there is a gun in Damon’s hand and Kavill could be the furious fiend on the other side of that door…
This is dangerous.
The awareness stabs deep and hard, gushing raw terror to my throat as Damon motions for me to duck behind the couch.
This is real.
I cower, trembling and cold, as he creeps coolly to the door. I am almost angry at him. Spy or not, how can he be so calm?
This is truly insane.
Every cell in my body freezes as he yells out, “Who is it?”—
I could truly die.
And am now certain that I will, as the intruding assholes do not wait to knock again.
They break down. Crash in. Invade, whooshing in like a clash of Titan-class super heroes—only a thousand times more loud, terrifying, and floor-shaking.
“Room service, mother fucker.”
Doyle?
“Drop the heat. Now.”
Hodge?
“Against the wall. Do it!”
Oh, dear Creator. No.
I forget about cowering now. My shock propels down my arms and pulls me up on knees still made of mush and feet still formed of lead. Compels my gaping eyes to comprehend the surreal truth of the scene in front of me.
“Cassian?”
I am answered only with a look full of so much fire and agony and pain, it forces me to drop again. I kneel on the couch, every nerve clenching, my stomach turning inside out, as I realize exactly why his face is contorted like that, and why his eyes pierce me with such glimmering green allegation. He has leapt to the same conclusion I would, in his place. A lover gone every afternoon. Vague texts during those hours. Every night, giving him a pretty, perfect toy to make up for it.
How much of a fool have I taken him to be?
The pain of that same question is hard as jade in his eyes, coarse as granite across his lips—
Violent as a pissed-off Titan, in the blow he drives