Page 8 of A Ballad of Blackbirds and Betrayal
She recognized the assessment—the same one she performed in trauma units during those critical first seconds.They were gauging her worth, her potential danger, her usefulness.Sabrina straightened her spine and met their scrutiny, unflinching.
“Introductions are in order,” Atticus said.“We use code names during operations—call signs.An old black-ops habit that’s proven effective in the field.”
He nodded toward a man with agile fingers and watchful eyes.“Calvin Cruz, our tech specialist.Known as Cypher when we’re operational.”
Cal flashed a grin that lightened his intense focus, his fingers tapping an unknown rhythm on the table.
“Nathan and Eden Locke,” Atticus continued, indicating a couple whose physical proximity betrayed their connection.“Warlock and Nightshade in the field.”
Nate offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.Eden merely nodded, her exotic features revealing nothing.
“Max and Jade Devlin.”The final couple presented a study in contrasts—he massive with military-short hair, she all lean elegance with a knife dancing between her fingers.“Viper and Frost, respectively.”
“Don’t mind the knife,” Max said, catching Sabrina’s glance.“Stress reliever.Like those squeeze balls, but with the added benefit of keeping skills sharp.”
“And I’m Reaper,” Atticus concluded.“When the mission’s live, those are the only names we use.It helps us compartmentalize—separate the operative from the person.And it keeps our real names off the channels in case someone intercepts the frequencies.”
She glanced around the table.“You said an old black-ops habit.You all served together before Dynamis?”
“Some of us did,” Atticus replied.“Nate, Max and Jade served under my command in a specialized unit.Cal worked for an alphabet agency and was too skilled for them to know what to do with him.”
Something in the way they exchanged glances spoke of shared history deeper than professional connection—missions too classified to mention, dangers survived together that forged bonds stronger than friendship.
Atticus pulled out a chair for Sabrina at the head of the table, opposite his own position.The symbolism wasn’t lost on her—an equal in this gathering of predators.She set her briefcase on the polished surface and met his gaze across the glass.
“My time is limited,” she said.“So perhaps we could get to the point of this meeting?”
Cal’s unexpected laugh broke the tension.“I like her already.”
“The point, Dr.Wells,” Atticus said, settling into his chair with controlled grace, “is determining what each of us brings to the table, and how we can work together to stop Mitchell before he weaponizes this technology further.”
“What I bring is medical expertise and documentation of four victims,” Sabrina replied, opening her briefcase and placing a sealed file on the table.“What I need is to understand why a private security firm with government contracts is pursuing a sitting US senator instead of taking this evidence to federal authorities.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.Jade’s knife stilled between her fingers.
“We have our reasons,” Eden said carefully, exchanging a glance with Atticus.
“I’m sure you do,” Sabrina countered.“And if we’re going to work together, I need to know what they are.I’m not risking my career and possibly my life on a corporate vendetta or a power play.”
Silence stretched between them as Sabrina held Atticus’s gaze without wavering.Something dangerous flickered in his eyes—not directed at her, but at whatever demons drove him.The others watched with the stillness of operators accustomed to reading currents of power.
“Senator Mitchell orchestrated the murder of my wife eight years ago,” Atticus finally said, each word precisely controlled.“He had her killed and my daughter shot because I was getting too close to his weapons-dealing operation.The official investigation concluded it was a random act of violence.It wasn’t.”
The clinical detachment Sabrina had maintained began to fracture.The pieces aligned—his controlled rage at the gala, his personal pursuit of evidence against Mitchell, the loyalty of his team that surpassed professional commitment.
“I’m sorry,” she said simply, knowing no other words could suffice.
“We don’t want your sympathy, Dr.Wells,” Max said, his deep voice rumbling across the table.“We want your expertise.”
“And you have it,” she replied without hesitation.“But understand that my priority is stopping this bioweapon from being deployed.Justice for your wife is your motivation—saving lives is mine.”
Atticus nodded once, a gesture of acknowledgment and respect.“Then let’s get to work.”
For the next forty-five minutes, Sabrina presented everything she’d discovered.Her delivery carried the measured particulars of countless medical presentations.She explained how four patients had arrived at her emergency department over three months, each presenting with symptoms that defied diagnosis—hemorrhaging, neurological damage, rapid organ failure that progressed despite intervention.
“All four had connections to BioGenix Laboratories,” she said, bringing up medical charts on the screen Cal had prepared.“A delivery driver who transported materials to their facility.A janitor who worked in their research wing.A lab technician from a subcontracting company.And finally, a graduate student who briefly interned in their quality control department.”
“None important enough to raise suspicions if they died,” Eden observed, studying the data with narrowed eyes.
