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“Oh.”
My heart breaks at the thought that he should be watched by a doctor instead of flying around and dealing with his father’s death. Someone should be with him. A friend. A relative. Does he even have anyone who cares?
The last thought is heavy.
On the way to my desk, I type a message to him.
Me: How are you today?
No response—I’m not surprised, don’t expect any.
The Center goes on in its usual way, the nature soundtrack annoyingly peaceful though my mood is so grim that I stare at the screen of my work laptop for what seems like an eternity after it lights up, then finally dial Dad.
“I heard the news,” he says instead of greeting me.
I stare down at the desk instead of him and nod in silence.
“I’m assuming Mr. Crone will leave for the mainland if he didn’t yet?” Dad always calculates everything. Just like Archer. They’re so alike, it’s scary.
“He…” I look around, making sure no one is close, then put the headphones in. “He overdosed yesterday,” I tell Dad quietly. “Only a handful of people know.”
The next five minutes are a slow exchange of phrases that leave my mouth without much apprehension.
“So. O’Shea. Did you get my message?” Dad asks.
The message seems like it happened days ago.
“Right, O’Shea.”
Everything around feels like mush—reality, employees at the computers, time. Like my brain is malfunctioning. O’Shea is the last person on my mind.
“So, he’s connected to Tsariuk and was sent here by him. Possibly with Cunningham,” I say, trying to shake off my thoughts about Archer. “What do we do? And whatcanwe do without Archer being here?”
“Nick Marlow is in charge of security. So I’d like to get on a conference call with him and you. And someone who knows the security inside and out besides him, someone trusted. This last piece of info creates a bit of a problem. The longer we wait, the more likely O’Shea is to do something that can put Ayana in danger, being on the inside and all. So let’s get this call scheduled.”
I call Marlow, and an hour later, he comes in and motions me to follow him to Archer’s office.
“His online connection is encrypted,” he says, closing the door behind us. “He gave me the clearance.”
So, Marlow talked to Archer, but Archer didn’t find a second to text me back—understandable, though it pricks me with hurt.
“Is he alright?” I ask, not looking at Marlow so I don’t give away my emotions.
“I guess,” he says.
The door opens to reveal Raven, making me tense in momentary surprise. He’s the guy from the beach, the same one we saw at the Carnage fight club weeks ago.
Raven is built smaller than Archer but looks so much more intimidating. Dressed in all black, long sleeves, jeans, and Vans, with his jet-black messy hair, he looks like a devil and emanates danger. The only thing missing is the cigarette that usually hangs from between his lips, smoke curling around him.
He’s silent, but his presence fills the room, his prying gaze turning my stomach in slight unease.
“Kat, this is Raven,” Marlow says without looking as he sets up the call on the big screen on the wall. “Raven, meet Katura.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
He shakes my hand with a nod but doesn’t say a word. There’s something odd about him, which I can’t pinpoint yet. He’s not a spring-breaker or rich. A stray—used to be, I assume—but of the worst kind, someone you don’t want to get into a fight with in the wrong part of town but someone you’ll probably be safer with in those same places than any trained soldier.
I know this kind. I used to work for them on the streets of Bangkok. High loyalty, gray morals, and little value for human life. This guy doesn’t need tattoos head to toe to scream danger. He’s been to hell and back, on the edge of a syringe and at the end of a sharp knife. It’s in his calculated movements and the way his jaw shifts just a tiny bit like he’s tasting fresh blood. In the way he doesn’t have to look at you for you to know he hears everything, and when he does look—his gaze is razor sharp, making you look away.
