He smiled—a bloody, broken thing that somehow conveyed genuine warmth. “I’m tough to kill. And I still have my own answers to find.” I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. What was there to say, after all?
“Go back the way you two came,” he continued, pressing a small device into Ronan’s hand. “The police will come up the front first. This will give you time.”
Distant sirens filtered through the building’s walls. Minutes, maybe seconds left.
Ronan nodded at Specter, a silent exchange between two soldiers who understood sacrifice.
“When this is over...” I started, but Specter cut me off.
“When this is over, the world will know what Oblivion has done. And you two will have made that happen.”
“The three of us,” I corrected him as I reached out, my fingers touching his hand briefly. “Thank you,” I whispered, meaning it more than I could express. “For everything.”
“Time to go.” Ronan’s voice was steady as he pulled me away. My legs moved automatically, following him while my heart pulled me back toward Specter.
“Get her somewhere safe,” Specter called after Ronan. “Keep her alive!”
The last glimpse I caught of him was through tears—a dark figure standing straight despite his wounds, facing whatever came next with unflinching resolve.
Ronan pulled me through the corridor, his grip on my hand firm, unyielding. Behind us, Specter became another ghost in our growing collection of losses and sacrifices. But ahead of us lay something else—a chance at truth, justice, and maybe even love.
Chapter 27
The Director
The explosion appeared in three simultaneous feeds on my monitor—security footage, satellite thermal imaging, and a grainy smartphone video already circulating online. Flames tore through the São Paulo facility with beautiful artistry. The loss should’ve been devastating, but I knew better than anyone else that the most beautiful creations could rise from ashes.
And that was my intention.
I leaned back in my leather chair, letting the warm amber light from my desk lamp wash over me as I savored the orchestrated destruction. The blue glow from the monitors painted my office in contrasting cool tones. Below my window, Manhattan sprawled like a circuit board of light and shadow, utterly disconnected from the chaos unfolding across my screens.
I whistled softly when the main structural support collapsed, bringing down the east wing in a cascade of concrete and steel. Not random destruction—there was elegance in how the building imploded.
“Magnificent,” I murmured, cocking my head to side. “My assets always did have a flair for demolition.”
I reached for the glass of Macallan 25 on my desk, swirling the amber liquid twice—never more, never less—before taking a measured sip. The whiskey’s warmth bloomed across my tongue, but failed to evoke any emotional response. I hadn’t tasted pleasure in decades. What remained was pure analysis: 86 proof, notes of oak, vanilla, and dried fruit. Acceptable.
The secondary explosion triggered right on schedule, obliterating what remained of the research wing. With it went years of data, dozens of subjects, and one moderately competent operations manager. Brock’s final contribution to the project—serving as kindling. That was, perhaps, his biggest achievement yet. I couldn’t say that he’d be missed—or that his absence would be noticed in the infrastructure of the machinery I had built.
Footsteps approached outside my door—Alban’s distinctive gait, unhurried yet purposeful. With a casual tap on my keyboard, I closed the São Paulo feeds just as my office door opened.
Alban entered with the silent efficiency that made him invaluable, his tailored suit unmarked by even a wrinkle despite the late hour.
“The São Paulo police have secured the area,” he reported, standing before my desk with perfect posture. “Our contacts have already initiated containment protocols. By morning, it will be classified as a gas leak in an abandoned property. No connection to any legitimate business interests.” He wastrained to follow the protocols in moments like these—I knew he was someone I could count on. Someone who would get the job done. Unlike Brock. The world would know whatIwanted them to know.
“And our assets?” I asked, tracing the rim of my whiskey glass with one finger.
Alban’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly—a reaction I had cataloged many times in our years of collaboration. A sign of delivering information he knew I would find suboptimal.
“Maeve Durham and Reaper have disappeared. No trace on any transit systems or surveillance networks.”
A flicker of annoyance passed through me—an outdated response from the limbic system I’d spent decades trying to override. I dismissed it with a wave. “Interesting. Two lab rats escaping the maze.”
I turned to study the Manhattan skyline, each building categorized and measured in my mind. “Reaper was always the anomaly in the data. Too resistant to the final stages of conditioning. I suppose this was to be expected.”
“Should I prioritize retrieval, sir?”
I remained silent for exactly seven seconds—enough to make Alban shift his weight to his other foot. These small exercises in discomfort kept him properly calibrated.
