29. Kyra
29
KYRA
T he kitchen was chaotic, with staff in aprons and headscarves jostling around one another, shouting instructions and cursing in the early-morning rush. Steam hissed from large metal pots, and the scent of freshly baked bread permeated the air. Despite the frantic energy, the place was warm and inviting, and if Kyra hadn't been on a mission she might have enjoyed it.
Madame Afshar, the formidable head cook, was easy to spot. She had a presence that matched her stout figure, barking orders at an unfortunate young woman trying to scrub the counter with one hand while juggling a stack of baking trays with the other. When she spotted Kyra, she waved her over and pointed to a large tray loaded with breakfast items. "Take this to the officers' mess—third floor, West Wing. And hurry up about it!"
When the head cook added two steaming pots of tea, Kyra pretended to stagger under the weight, earning a smirk from the woman who had no doubt intended to test her.
Keeping her eyes downcast, Kyra murmured an apology.
"Just go!" Madame Afshar commanded, her voice echoing off the tiled walls. "Keep the officers' cups full and the mess clean. I don't want to hear any complaints about you."
Kyra bobbed her head in a silent "Yes, ma'am" and slipped away, carefully maneuvering around the other kitchen staff members who were moving between the boiling pots and hissing pans like an army of drunken flies.
No one gave her more than a cursory glance. Maids and kitchen workers came and went at all hours, and she was just one more in a never-ending stream of worker bees.
Clutching the tray, Kyra began the climb up several flights of concrete stairs to the West Wing's third floor. Even burdened as she was, her enhanced strength helped her navigate the steps quickly, and as she ascended, she caught snatches of conversation from behind closed doors—most of it meaningless chatter: complaints about duty rosters, arguments over petty grievances, and mostly gossip.
Then, a distinct male voice pierced the general noise. It was slightly accented as if Farsi wasn't his native tongue, although he spoke it flawlessly.
"Turmor is re-growing his toes," he said. "The idiot stepped on a mine. What did you expect to happen to him?"
Kyra felt her chest tighten. She moved more slowly, attempting to glean another snippet.
"…it takes time. It's not like a simple injury."
She wanted to linger, to press her ear to the door, but footsteps approached from the other direction, forcing her to keep moving.
The conversation proved that there were more people like her, people with advanced abilities that went beyond normal human limits, who could even regrow missing body parts. She hadn't known she could do that.
Finally, she reached the officers' mess—a large room lit by tall windows that overlooked the compound's central courtyard. There were three wooden tables, with at least half a dozen men in uniforms sitting and chatting.
Kyra lowered her head submissively and slipped in, serving coffee, tea, and bread to those seated at the tables. The hum of conversation buzzed around her, and she kept her ears attuned to pick up any mention of the new commander or the special prisoners.
A pair of soldiers near the window caught her attention. They were good-looking, tall, and imposing, but what made them stand out was the way they carried themselves, the way every move seemed too fluid, almost preternaturally smooth.
They were like her, enhanced.
These men had likely undergone the same procedures that had transformed her into the lethal weapon she was now, making them extremely dangerous.
"Where is the commander this morning?" asked a broad-shouldered officer, pausing mid-sip as Kyra refilled his cup.
"Attending a meeting," another replied. "He had his breakfast delivered to his office at dawn as usual."
Kyra worked her way around the room, offering tea and collecting empty plates. She kept the mask of a dutiful server, her shoulders slumped and her movements deliberately clumsier than usual.
The phrase "special division" flitted toward her from one of the conversations.
Did it mean people like her?
Her pendant radiated a low-grade warmth, an almost anxious pulse against her sternum as if urging her to remain on guard. She didn't need the reminder. Every nerve in her body was on edge.
When the breakfast service ended, a couple of the junior officers stayed behind, showing little interest in leaving. Kyra started to wipe down tables, feigning concentration on each crumb and drip of tea.
"Did you see what Sergeant Nazari did yesterday?" the shorter one asked in a hushed tone, believing only his friend could hear him. "He jumped down three stories and landed like a cat—walked away without so much as a limp!"
The other officer, a lean man with tense shoulders, shrugged. "If you know what's good for you, keep your nose out of their business and don't ask questions. Don't talk about the strange staff either." He leaned closer. "What if they are possessed?"
The other man laughed. "You and your stupid superstitions."
"They are not stupid. It is a known thing that the touch of a Jinn can give a man dark powers, and even more so to a woman."
"That I believe," the other one said and dropped his voice even lower. "I've heard rumors that the rebel women are Jinn touched. Some are even bulletproof."
As if reading her chaotic thoughts, her pendant warmed up. Were they talking about her?
Sensing that she'd lingered near them long enough, Kyra forced herself to keep moving, scrubbing away invisible spots. She needed more information, but she also needed to remain inconspicuous.
The conversation between the officers drifted onto other topics: the next supply shipment, the desertion of a soldier last week, speculation about how the commander managed to get so much funding from the government in Tehran.
It was all valuable information, but she still needed to get to the East Wing and find out who the new prisoners were.
Eventually the two stood and left, leaving half-eaten plates in their wake. Kyra placed the dishes onto the tray and returned it to the kitchen.