Page 148 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

I sit. He doesn’t. Instead, he crosses to a sideboard and pours two glasses of water. He brings me a glass and sits opposite me with his own glass. “There was an irregularity during your evaluation at the hangar.”

Every muscle in my body wants to tighten. I lift my water instead. “If you’re referring to the woman wandering around outside, your people already questioned me about her.”

“I’m referring to the fact that she has become something of an inconvenience.”

“Then deal with your inconvenience.”

“We are.”

I set the glass down. Not too quickly or too carefully—the same way I would if he had told me his caterer had canceled or that he just made an appointment for a haircut.

Rooke watches me. Not my eyes, but my hands. Interesting.

“She won’t interfere with tonight’s transaction,” he says.

My heart slams once against my ribs. There are a lot of ways Reese could be made incapable of interfering. I’m suddenly picturing her on the parking-garage footage. The way her purse hit the concrete, the way she fought back. I fight to put it from my mind and lean back. There are moments when being good at reading people is less about figuring out what they’re thinking and more about figuring out what they need to see. Rooke needs to see a man who doesn’t care about Reese. So, I give him one.

Rooke takes a drink. “People are usually easier to understand than they believe.”

“I’ve found the opposite. Most people are remarkably good at making themselves more complicated than necessary.”

His eyes hold mine, and for a second, it feels less like two criminals discussing a purchase and more like two men sitting across a chessboard. Except Reese might be bleeding somewhere while I move pieces.

Rooke finally looks away from me and toward the black case. Test over. For now.

He draws the case toward him and opens it. It contains one item—a small, black, ordinary flash drive. Radomir died because of what’s on that drive, and six other people could die if I don’t walk out with it.

Rooke removes it and inserts it into a laptop already waiting on the table. He enters a password, then another, and turns the screen toward me.

There are seven files. I make myself breathe. I know every name, every face, every detail Emerson drilled into me to prep for this moment.

I open the first file—it’s Radomir. His photograph fills one side of the screen, and the other side shows his name, occupation, last known residence, his relationship to the CSA, and the type of intelligence he supplied.

And the word Deceased.

I move to the next. Alive. The third is alive. I work through all seven while Rooke watches. The locations match what we know, and the relationships match. Every asset from the compromised operation is here. Seven people reduced to records someone decided could be sold.

I close the final file. “Seven,” I say. “That’s what was promised.”

Outside this house, Nora knows exactly what I just told her.

Rooke reaches for the laptop. “One is no longer actionable.”

I nod. “Radomir Vukovic.”

“Yes. The other six remain active.”

“And the locations?”

“Current within forty-eight hours.”

He says it casually. He’s talking about six human beings as if he’s talking about shipping information.

“And these are all confirmed sources tied to the agency?”

Rooke’s gaze settles on me again. “Yes.”

There it is—possession, knowledge, and intent. Everything we need. I let a few seconds pass, like Maxwell is considering whether he’s satisfied.