Page 80 of What We Burn

“I’ve prepared a thirty-seven-slide presentation on why Sage should⁠—”

“A simple yes will suffice.”

“Yes. Emphatically, enthusiastically, and with multiple exclamation marks.”

“Eli?”

Eli lifts his head. The bruise on his cheekbone from Milo’s fist in the garage has faded to a faint yellow shadow that you’d only notice if you knew where to look.

“She’s the strongest of all of us,” he says. “And she’s right. We’re better together than apart.”

Odin considers this for a moment. His eye moves across each of us, that weighing gaze that makes you feel like he’s reading your personnel file behind your face.

“Very well.”

Milo punches the air silently. I catch his eye and he grins. Even Holden’s jaw unclenches a fraction.

“However.” The word lands like a door closing. “There is an active threat against her life. Someone is targeting her. Someone who may have coordinated prior assaults with Davis. Until that threat is identified and neutralized, bringing her into active operations introduces a variable I’m not comfortable with.”

“She’s not asking to run a job tomorrow,” I say. “She’s asking to be in the room.”

“And I’m saying she can be in the room, but not the field until after the stalker is dealt with.” Odin’s tone brooks no arguments. “Find SMAN69. Neutralize the threat. Then Miss Adams can have the opportunity to prove herself in the field.”

He picks up his espresso, takes a third sip—unprecedented—and sets it down. “Brief her after the meeting. We’ll begin by reading her in on the next target. Which brings me to the second item.” Odin’s voice shifts. “Your next target.”

Odin slides a folder across the table. It’s the standard dossier—matte black, no markings, the kind that gets burned after the operation. Holden takes it first as always.

“Angus Webster,” Odin says. “Forty-four. Head of youth athletics at St. Clement’s Preparatory School. Married. Three children. A dog—a Saint Bernard. Active in his church. Coaches the under-sixteens lacrosse team and runs the school’s summer sports camp.”

I stiffen. There’s a specific kind of cold that seeps in when a target involves children.

“Nine complaints filed with school administration over the past seven years,” Odin continues. “Every single one was handled internally. No police involvement. No external investigation. This school’s board includes Webster’s father-in-law, who also happens to be the largest individual donor to St. Clement’s endowment.”

“Of course he is,” Milo mutters.

Holden is scanning the file.

“The most recent complaint was four months ago,” Odin says. “A fourteen-year-old boy in the school’s athletics program. His parents reported to the school. The school conducted an internal review and concluded that the accusations were ‘unsubstantiated.’ The family was offered a partial scholarship refund and forced to sign a nondisclosure agreement.”

“A partial refund?” Knox mutters.

“The family didn’t sign the NDA. They went to the police instead. The case was dropped after three weeks. The detective assigned cited insufficient evidence and a ‘he said, he said’ scenario that wouldn’t hold up in court.” Odin pauses. “That detective has since been identified as a St. Clement’s alumnus who sends his own children to the school.”

“Fuck,” Eli curses.

“The family moved out of state. The boy has been hospitalized twice since. The father attempted to go to the press and was served with a cease-and-desist by the school’s legal team. He hasn’t spoken publicly since.”

Odin lets that sit.

“Webster’s current schedule has him running a preseason lacrosse clinic that begins in two weeks—right when fall term opens. Twelve boys, ages thirteen to sixteen. It’s residential. Five days on campus with overnight supervision provided by Webster and one assistant coach.”

“We can’t let that happen.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“Agreed,” Odin says. “Timeline is tight. I want this done before the clinic begins. That gives you roughly eleven days to plan, surveil, and execute. Webster has a documented history of anxiety and was briefly prescribed medication for it three years ago, which gives us a plausible narrative.”

Odin stands, smoothing a hand down his jacket. “Get to work.”

He’s almost to the door when he pauses.