Page 6 of Shadowfox
I turned toward the far wall, where a man stood half shadowed, a glass of amber liquor balanced between his fingers. The man was dressed in muted elegance—sharp lines, an understated watch, and an expression as unreadable as a classified file.
I smirked. “Missed you, too, Egret.”
He took a slow sip, his dark eyes watching us over the rim of the glass. “You two look like hell.”
Sparrow laughed. “Ah, but they wear it so well.”
I tilted my head. “And you look just as disinterested as ever. I was beginning to think we weren’t friends.”
Egret exhaled, his lips curving ever so slightly. “That depends on your definition of friendship, Emu.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast, then drained it in one go before setting it down on the table with a decisive clink. The easy use of our code names should’ve shocked me after so long apart, but our little family never struggled with reunions. We’d survived too much together to let a little thing like time apart fray our friendship.
Thomas smirked. “Still drinking whiskey like it’s water, I see.”
“Water doesn’t get the job done.” He turned to Manakin. “Are we doing this briefing, or are we waiting for more reunions? If you make me hug Condor, I might toss my glass.”
“Not until I get my damn hugs,” Arty barked, standing and planting balled fists on his scrawny hips. His spectacles were a touch too large for his face, making him look like some kind of bug with ridiculous rapidly blinking eyes.
Thomas and I closed the gap at the same time, sandwiching our old compadre and squeezing for all our worth.
“Guys . . . gotta breathe . . . down here . . . help . . . Manakin . . . EGRET!”
“Fuckin’ on your own, little man. You begged for it.” Egret strode by, ice rattling in his glass as he passed.
Sparrow’s laughter was music on the wind.
Manakin chuckled, the most emotion we’d likely get out of the man. “Enough. Leave my chief doo-dad architect in one piece, please.”
“Doo-dad architect? Is that an official spy title now?” I whispered to Thomas.
Arty scooted back from us, then slapped my arm like I’d just told a joke about his mother.
Thomas cocked a brow—and a grin—and shrugged.
Raines tapped ash into a tray, his voice smooth. “Take a seat, ladies and gents. We’ve got work to do.”
Egret made his way to the table, set down his glass, then grabbed Thomas and pulled him into an embrace, shocking everyone. He liked to play tough, but the guy was as solid as gold. A second or two passed, then he grabbed me and repeated the gesture, this time whispering in my ear, “It’s good to see you, you little shit.”
I was all teeth and lips as I pulled back and studied our old teammate. He hadn’t changed, hadn’t aged, hadn’t added scars or facial hair. If anything, he looked younger than when I’d seen him last. My mind wandered down the path of how I might look to him after so long, but such musing would have to wait.
Manakin cleared his throat, so we took our seats around the now-crowded table.
“We don’t have much time, so let’s skip the pleasantries.” He tapped the map in front of him, Budapest staring back at us in cold, inked lines. “Dr. László Farkas is the target. He’s a Hungarian cryptographer who developed a machine unlike anything our people have seen. Think of it as the Brit’s Enigma decoder machine gone nuclear. If he finishes it, the Soviets will be able to decode every major intelligence transmission before it reaches its intended recipient—across every country, foreign service, government, business, or little old lady’s phone call, you name it.”
“Dear God,” I muttered, glancing at Thomas. His face remained unreadable.
Manakin continued. “We don’t know exactly how far along he is, but if Moscow already has his research—or enough of it to recreate the machine themselves—we’re looking at a situation we won’t be able to recover from for decades, possibly ever.”
I leaned forward. “So we get him out.”
Manakin hesitated.
And that hesitation set my nerves on edge.
“What?” Egret pressed, voice flat.
Manakin exhaled. “We’re notsurehe wants to leave.”
Silence.
