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“What?”

“Open it.”

The screen wanted a fingerprint.

I glanced up.

He had passed out.

“Fucking hell.”

I grabbed his wrist, pressed his thumb to the screen, and found the red square among a bunch of dark icons that screamed organized crime.

The call connected instantly. A male voice answered. “Status.”

I froze, and the voice sharpened. “Status.”

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then, carefully: “Who is this?”

I looked at the bleeding man on my couch. “My name is Olivia.”

A pause.

“Ah,” he said. “Ms. Heart.”

My brain tripped over itself. “Excuse me?”

“We’re sending people to you now.”

“What people? Who are you? Why did you call me Ms. Heart? How do you know who I am?”

“I need you to listen. Is the asset conscious?”

“The what?”

“The asset.”

I stared at the masked man. “He is not an asset. He is a man.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Okay, wow. Hate that.”

“Is he conscious?”

I leaned closer. The mask angled weakly toward me.

“Barely.”

“Good. Barely is workable.”

“What happened to him?”

“That’s not important right now.”