“The Director is dissatisfied with his performance since the café extraction. Apparently, Brock promised immediate results with the Maeve acquisition.” Specter looked at me. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I muttered. “Always nice to be reduced to an ‘acquisition.’”
Specter continued, “Brock’s running a ghost op. The recovery mission for you two isn’t sanctioned by Oblivion central command.”
“He’s gone rogue,” Reaper said, the words falling between us like stones.
Specter nodded. “He’s assembled a small team—five, maybe six operatives personally loyal to him. They’re working outside official parameters.”
A chill ran through me. “So Oblivion doesn’t know what he’s doing?”
“The Director knows something,” Specter said. “But Brock’s intentionally limiting the information flow. My source says he’s promising to ‘fix his mistakes’ by bringing you both in personally.”
Rain began pattering against the windows, the rhythm accelerating like a quickening pulse.
“This changes things,” Reaper said finally, something shifting in his expression—calculation replacing coldness. He turned to the table where maps and tactical gear lay scattered. “If Brock’s operating without full organizational backing, we have an advantage.”
“How exactly is this an advantage?” I asked, forcing my voice to remain steady.
“We can use the rift,” Specter explained. “Brock’s vulnerable. Exposed. The Director’s already questioning his judgment and not providing backup or resources. He’s desperate—and desperate men make mistakes.”
“And if Brock fails again,” Reaper continued, “Oblivion might cut him loose.”
I watched them slip into tactical mode, the earlier emotional confrontation seemingly forgotten as they examined maps and discussed extraction points. The professional efficiency was almost beautiful, if it weren’t for the knife still lodged in my chest from moments before.
“We need to...” Reaper started, but Specter’s phone buzzed again, cutting him off.
A strange stillness fell over us. Second call in minutes. Not good.
Specter glanced at the screen, his eyes widening slightly. As he read the message, something remarkable happened—a slow smile spread across his face, transforming his typically guarded expression. It was the face of someone who’d just been handed a winning hand in a high-stakes game.
“What is it?” Reaper asked, tension vibrating in his voice.
Specter looked up, that smile still playing at his lips. “My contact says they can help us. They’ve got Brock’s location.”
Reaper’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly, his weight redistributing as if preparing to move. “What contact?” His voice carried an edge of dangerous skepticism.
I found myself momentarily pulled from my emotional turmoil, curiosity cutting through the hurt. “Who is your contact?”
Outside, the rain intensified, droplets hammering against the windows in an escalating rhythm. The sound filled the momentary silence as Specter contemplated his answer.
His smile changed then, becoming something almost predatory—knowing and dangerous. It was the expression of someone holding a trump card and waiting for the right moment to play it.
“Reaper and I aren’t the only ones who want out,” he said, each word measured. “Oblivion’s house of cards is starting to collapse.”
Chapter 22
Maeve
Rain tapped against the tiny street-level windows, casting irregular patterns across the floor of our basement hideout. A slow drip from the ceiling landed like a metronome into a metal pot Specter had positioned earlier, the ping-ping-ping marking time like a countdown.
I rolled my shoulders against the stiffness settling in. This windowless basement smelled of mildew and the chemical tang of industrial cleaners. The ceiling hung so low that Ronan and Specter had to duck when they crossed the room.
My makeshift workstation wobbled when I typed, the uneven metal table steadied with a folded scrap of paper under one leg. In the gloomy half-light, torn pages from a notebook lay arranged in a pattern only I understood—names, dates, locations—a physical manifestation of the connections forming in my mind.
Xavier’s name appeared throughout my notes—sometimes as “X,” sometimes as “Blackout”—depending on which version of my brother I was tracking. The hard drives we stole from Brock’sfacility formed a daisy chain of cables across the table, each containing pieces of Oblivion’s secrets.
I bit my lower lip, pushing away a spike of frustration. Not thinking about Ronan storming out an hour ago. Not remembering the rage in his eyes when I discovered his plan to ship me off to Istanbul while he hunted my brother alone.
