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No place to hide.
I duck into the bathroom, run the faucet to drown out any surveillance, then dial mission control. My pulse beats in my fingertips as the line rings.
When no one answers, my neck prickles.
The SAS is cruel, but they’re not stupid.
There’s no way Team Fissure hasn’t gotten the memo I’m about to be broken and sold.
Holy shit. She expects me to go through with it.
I mean, I expected to be screwed, but not this hard.
I dial again.
Again.
A few more times.
After twenty or thirty calls, the line finally connects.
“Simon here. What can I do you for?” he trills like he’s taking pizza orders.
Meanwhile, I’m undercover in a cartel, alone, and about to be auctioned—a-fucking-gain—without a whiff of a plan to reassure me this is a mission and not a set-up.
“What the hell?” I hiss. “Elyse said you’d give me a signal. When are you moving to grab Nikolaj?”
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Simon!”
“Yeah, yeah. So, here’s the thing. Serafina’s talking and the commander wants to keep her talking. We need you to stall.”
“For how long?” I grit my teeth until I taste powdered jaw bone.
“A few days. She—”
“Put Bridget on the phone.”
“Commander Fissure said—”
“I will fry your potato chip ass. Put her on. Now.”
Simon grumbles, but eventually the line clicks.
“Twenty-Six. The situation has evolved.” My heart squeezes when Bridget speaks, military crisp—like I’m not about to be sacrificed and everything is going perfectly to plan.
Oh, right.
It is.
The plan where I fuck up and have to show my hand to save my throat.
“Evolved how?” I ask lightly, so disgustingly used to swallowing my fury.
Has Bridget ever once thought of me as her kid?
Don’t answer that question.
