This Means War

17. - RAFAEL -

We rented a sleek, high-end car—with leather seats soft as clouds, and a quiet engine humming with an air of understated wealth—and paid in cash, a subtle exchange that left no trace behind. Monica sat in the back, her posture regal, her face an unreadable mask. Luis leaned against the passenger window, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm on his knee, each motion brimming with restless energy. I kept my eyes on the city streets as I drove, the skyline glittering like a promise just out of reach.

The silence between us was taut and alive, coiled like a spring ready to snap. But this could work. Monica and Luis had the kind of brilliance that thrived on tension—sharp minds and sharper words, honed in a world where language itself was a weapon.

The UN building loomed ahead, its polished steel and glass cutting through the skyline. Its grandeur felt both comforting and suffocating, a reminder of Monica’s literal agency and the danger she was still navigating.

Once inside, Monica led us through the hushed, and honored halls of the UN building. The polished floors gleaming beneath the soft glow of recessed lighting. She walked with the poise of someone who belonged there—each step deliberate, her shoulders squared, her presence commanding. But there was a subtle falter in her silence, that betrayed the exhaustion she was too proud to show.

Luis and I lingered near the door while Monica crossed the room to her desk. She reached for the landline’s receiver, her hand hesitating briefly before dialing. When she spoke to the officer on the other end, her voice was steady, unwavering in its calm authority. She had found a smoking gun, we just had to keep her safe until she could use it.

“This is Monica May, United Nations Advisor,” she began, her tone calm but firm. “I’d like to arrange a meeting to address the accusations against me. I’ll be at the UN building for the rest of the evening if you want to talk.”

Luis exchanged a glance with me, his brow furrowed. I nodded, letting him know that I thought we got this. Monica hung up the phone, her hand lingering on the receiver before she turned to face us.

“They’ll be here soon,” she said.

The room we set up in wasn’t reserved for dignitaries or diplomats. It was sterile and cold, its lighting washing the color from everything. We weren’t using this building built on international law and order for show. This room quietly spoke that we had work to do.

Luis pulled out a work phone he kept in his office, his thumb hovering over the screen before he started typing. The message was short, letting the seriousness of everything we’d uncovered speak for itself. If the public evidence and Detective Rourke’s connection weren’t enough our agency could easily pull the IP address to fully verify. He hit send, the text disappearing into the ether with a finality that carried all the choices we made. A single ping followed moments later, the reply as curt as it was clear: We will send someone.

Luis took a seat next to Monica, his posture protective. I stood near the corner, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. It wasn’t Luis’ handler that showed up. It was a tall, eagle-eyed woman with a stern demeanor and voice that I only heard once but would never be able to forget how it was able to clear a room. We had summoned our collective boss to this battle.

She didn’t speak, merely giving Luis a subtle nod before sitting at his side of the table, her hands resting on a leather pad-folio.

A few police officers arrived next, their uniforms crisp, their expressions neutral but curious. The detective wasn’t among them, but I doubt he would stay hidden for long.

The conversation started predictably—polite questions, veiled accusations, as Monica countered each point with measured precise answers. But when the detective finally walked in, the niceties stopped.

Detective Rourke. His face was too familiar now. We’d seen him at the summit, hovering near several groups over the night, pretending not to listen but catching every word.

He wasted no time presenting his case, sliding printed photos and digital timestamps across the table. “Ms. May it is clear you have connections to individuals directly involved in the murder of Mr. Alan Sheridan,” he said, his voice tinged with an eager satisfaction.

Monica didn’t flinch. “None of that evidence links me directly to the crime,” she replied smoothly. “In fact, your own actions speak louder than your flimsy accusations ever could.”

Rourke’s smirk faltered.

Our handler leaned back as she unzipped her pad-folio. The sound alone jarring enough that the officers remained silent. “Connections only matter if they’re relevant. And those aren’t. But these?” She tossed some papers on the table. “However, very much are.”

“What are you going on about?” the detective barked and hastily grabbed the papers before any of the other officers could see. “This shows nothing!”

Luis’ hand curled into a fist on the table, but he didn’t speak. I could see the barely restrained urge to call out Rourke’s hypocrisy. He was a fighter at his core, and by far the most disciplined person I knew. That’s why I respected—no, liked him so much.

“Let’s review,” our handler said, sliding a fresh stack of papers across the table to each party. “These logs trace the anonymous posts back to Detective Rourke’s home address.”

“Fine, but I didn't shoot anyone!” he objected, turning to his fellow officers for backup. “I was on duty at the time of the murder.”

“Detective Rourke,” she continued, her tone icy, “This is about your quite active online presence. These posts—hateful, slanderous, coordinated—and how they align perfectly with the campaign to frame Ms. May. Care to explain why you did this?”

Rourke’s face turned red, his composure cracking. “This is absurd,” he stammered. “I—those logs could be faked.”

“If anyone knows about faking evidence, seems it would be you,” I scuffed. “Do you want to explain to your boss why you failed at your job so spectacularly that you had to go home and make up evidence for extra credit?”

Monica sat back in her chair, her gaze steady. “This wasn’t even about me, was it? It was about your obsession. Your hatred. You wanted a target, and you chose me because I don’t fit your mold. I was nothing more than fresh meat to your followers and dreams of a raise, wasn’t I?”

I hated to agree. Rourke wasn’t just acting as another cog in the system; he had made it personal. His fixation on Monica stemmed from her identity, her dating history, and everything she represented. But it wasn’t just about him. His actions fed a larger conspiracy orchestrated by NoxTech fanboys. Their pitiful boredom weaponized into something far more dangerous. And with his badge and position, he made the threat impossible to ignore.

Rourke opened his mouth to respond, but the volume of the evidence—and the room—was now crushing him into silence.

Our handler rose from her seat, her voice snapping like a whip. “Arrest that man,” she said, nodding toward the detective.

His face twisted in indignation. “You can’t be serious. I outrank every officer here. You have no jurisdiction!”

With a cool ease, our boss reached into her coat and flashed a badge—sleek, official, and unarguable. Those three letters caught the light as she let the badge linger just long enough to make an impact.

For the first time, I caught her smile. “You might outrank them, but not me.”

Rourke paled, his protests faltering as the officers exchanged glances. One stepped forward with handcuffs.

He didn’t put up a fight as his forged career fell into shambles. Maybe another lie later would get him out of trouble, but for now, and for us—it was over.

The police had no choice but to clear Monica’s name as a suspect, their apologies short and insincere. Rourke was escorted out in cuffs with his hatred laid bare for all of us to see.

Monica watched the officers go, her expression unreadable. When the door finally closed, she let out a slow, measured breath. “Well,” she said softly, “that’s one mess cleaned up.”

Luis reached out, his hand resting on hers briefly. “You handled that perfectly.”

She smiled faintly. “Thanks to your help.”

“What other mess?” I risked asking.

Monica’s face hit the jackpot of surprise before she softly laughed at me. She glanced over to our handler before she excused herself to make some more calls.

Our handler waited until Monica was out of earshot, then turned her strict gaze on us. “I suppose I should commend you for improvisation,” she said, her tone deceptively calm. “But going off book without authorization? That’s a gamble no agent is ever meant to take.”

My stomach dropped. I should have expected this, but hearing the words still felt like a blow. I glanced at Luis, who looked equally unsettled.

“We may have to reassign you both after this.”

“Where?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.

She tilted her head and glanced towards Monica. “That depends.”

“On what?” Luis asked with a wince.

“I was briefed on both of your recent actions,” she said sternly, her gaze landing back on us. For a moment, I saw a flicker of mercy in her eyes. “Since you’ve shown you can work well together, perhaps something together could be part of your new cover if you both agree.”

Luis blinked, his surprise quickly masked by a soft smile. “They do say a lie is best when it has a grain of truth.”

“You think we make a good team?” I dared ask.

The handler winked, a sight so impossible I thought I witnessed a miracle. “Let’s just say you’re effective.”

Later that night, the three of us sat on the steps of the UN building, as the weight of the past couple weeks finally began to lift. Our personal phones, which were picked up by the agency, were returned by a recruiter who gave a friendly pitch to Monica if she ever wanted a change of career.

I watched with a smile as Luis leaned against me, thinking about how Monica’s name had been cleared, her reputation intact—maybe even bolstered.

Still, everything would be different for us now. No more lying, no more hiding the truth. At least, not the truths that meant the most to us.

“Raf,” Luis said finally, his voice soft at my side. “Would you want me to come with you?”

I turned to him, my chest tightening at the sincerity in his gaze. “Maybe I could be your bodyguard if you stayed,” I teased. “Might need to get you back into danger first.”

A genuine smile tugged at his lips as he fought back a laugh. “How about personal trainer?”

The city lights sparkled around us, the world moving on while we remained still in this perfect bubble of contentment. For the first time in what felt like forever, the future didn’t feel like a mission—it felt like a choice.

And I chose him.

“Our cover story before was just being friends,” I said, pretending to hum in consideration. “How about boyfriends?”

“Yeah,” Luis teased, unable to conceal the joy in his voice. “Boyfriends. I can bring you over to my apartment.”

His words lingered, charged with my excitement of seeing something so simple in the new and beautiful light of day. My pulse raced, but not from the urge to compete. It was something else—something I’d been avoiding for too long. I leaned in, my forehead resting against his. “No more pretending,” I said softly. “It’s you. It’s always been about you.”

When our lips met, it was nothing like the anxiety and urgency of before. This pride was slow and deliberate, a promise made between shared hearts. His hand cupped my jaw, tilting my face as I let myself fall into him, and this moment that felt like a long lasting peace.

Standing behind us, Monica cleared her throat, the sound fully amused. “If you two are done making the world jealous, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Luis pulled back just enough to grin, his eyes still locked on mine as he brightly blushed. “Going to have to get used to being seen,” he said, tone teasing but warm.

“Nah.” I grinned, my heart lighter than it has even been. “That’s what your apartment is for.”

I wrapped an arm around his shoulder as we stood and turned toward Monica. Whatever came next, this wasn’t just the end of one story—it was the start of something new, something that was ours.