Chapter 14 – Silas - Wreckage Has Eyes #2
“It means,” Drazen says, “I like her better when she plays her part.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
He takes a sip. Slow. Controlled. “I don’t keep broken pieces on my chess board.”
The words aren’t loud.
But they echo in me louder than gunfire.
I nod once.
Then turn to leave.
But his voice stops me cold.
“Silas.”
I pause.
He stands. Walks over. Claps a hand on my shoulder.
And leaves it there.
Too long.
“You’re not broken, are you?” he asks.
I look at his hand.
Then into his gleaming eyes.
“No,” I say. “I’m the one who sweeps shit up.”
He smiles like it’s charming.
Like it means I’m still his.
I walk out before I prove him wrong with a bullet to the throat.
The street outside the club is drowning in blue neon.
Not the soft kind. The clinical kind. Buzzing, flickering, the kind that makes the world feel like it’s glitching.
I slide into the car and kill the music before it starts. I don’t need a beat to match the rhythm in my chest. It’s already off-tempo.
Drazen’s hand was still on my shoulder when I left. Figuratively. That kind of touch lingers. Like blood under your fingernails.
I grip the wheel tighter.
I should be heading to the Bureau post. Naomi's waiting for that debrief—waiting for us to figure out who's tailing me and why.
But I can't go there now.
Not after what I just saw.
Those files on Drazen's table weren't street intel. They were Bureau files. Case IDs, surveillance tags, operational summaries. The kind of information that only comes from inside.
Which means there's a leak.
But here's what doesn't add up: if Drazen had full access to someone inside the Bureau, he'd already know exactly who I am. He wouldn't need to test me or ask me to find out who's watching him—he'd just have me disappeared.
So either:
The leak is limited—someone selling files piecemeal without full operational access
Or Drazen doesn't fully trust his source and is using me to verify the information
Or he knows more than he's letting on and this whole meeting was another test
None of those options are good.
I pull over two blocks from the club and grab my phone.
Text Naomi on the encrypted line.
Can't come in. Drazen showed me Bureau case files. Someone's leaking intel to him. Don't know how deep it goes. Meeting in person is too risky until you run internal audit.
I stare at the message, then hit send.
Her response comes fast.
How much does he have?
Hard to say. Case files, surveillance protocols. But if the leak had full access, I'd already be burned. It's either limited intel or he's testing his source.
Three dots. Then: Stay dark. No meetings, no reports until I identify the breach. Do your job, stay in character. I'll handle this end.
Understood.
And Silas—assume everything is compromised until I tell you otherwise.
I click delete before I pocket the phone.
So that's it. I'm operating blind until Naomi figures out who's dirty. No backup. No check-ins. Just me walking the edge between Drazen's suspicion and Bureau protocols.
I should go back to my apartment. Lie low. Let Naomi work.
But I don't.
I drive.
No destination. Just momentum.
Past pawn shops and liquor stores and faces that don’t look up. Through lights that change too fast and intersections that feel like dares.
And then I end up outside her building.
I look up to the second floor, north-facing window.
It’s dark.
Not empty.
Just... dim.
Like she left the lights on for someone who isn’t coming.
I don’t go inside.
Instead, I sit in the car, roll the window down and light another cigarette I won’t finish.
And I whisper, “Fuck you, hero complex.”
A passing stranger glances at me like maybe I’m dangerous. Or deranged.
He’s not wrong.
I flick the ash out the window and close my eyes for a second.
That’s all it takes.
One second.
When I open them, someone’s standing in front of the car.
Not close.
Far enough not to be threatening. Close enough to be deliberate.
They’re wearing a hoodie. Black. Hood up.
Face shadowed.
Hands in pockets.
I straighten, hand already on the grip under the steering column.
But the figure turns and walks off.
No hurry.
Just... like they wanted to be seen.
I throw the door open and follow.
Fast.
But by the time I turn the corner, they’re gone.
No footsteps.
No echo.
Just a slipstream of cold air and a flyer flapping against a brick wall like applause.
I scan the alley. Nothing.
But something’s off.
There’s a trash bin cracked open nearby. I step closer.
Inside, there’s a phone. Crushed. Like someone bent it in half and tossed it as a message.
It looks like my model, but it’s not my phone.
It’s definitely the same burner line the Bureau issued last year.
I take out my gloves from my pocket, slipping them on before I pick up the phone with gloved fingers, eternally careful of tainting evidence.
The screen flickers once before dying.
But not before I see the wallpaper.
Lydia.
It’s her by the window. T-shirt. Legs curled under her. One hand holding a coffee mug. The other brushing her hair back.
I close my fist around the phone and stand there breathing like something just snapped inside me that was holding my restraint together.
Whoever they are... they’re not just watching her.
They’re taunting me.
Not Drazen.
Not the Bureau.
Me.
I pocket the phone and walk back to the car.
I climb in and start the engine with the kind of quiet that comes right before something explodes.
My apartment smells like wire insulation and regret.
I built it myself, not with hammers but with rules. Entry points, exit drills, preloaded scramblers, nothing that can be traced back to me, and nothing that should ever feel like home.
Tonight, it feels like a confession booth with no priest on the other side.
Everything looks untouched.
But that doesn’t mean it is.
I draw the gun before I close the door. Standard grip, suppressor already threaded. Not because I think someone’s inside, but because I’ve learned what it feels like when someone’s already left their fingerprint without touching a thing.
I scan the corners. Check the floor. The desk. The wall seam behind the breaker panel.
Then I see it.
Not big.
Not dramatic.
Just wrong.
A photo paperclipped to my hardcopy field notes, the kind I never keep here. The kind no one should know about.
It’s an overhead shot of Lydia’s building.
Zoomed in on her bedroom window.
Different angle.
Higher than mine.
Someone’s watching from above.
The rooftops across the block are higher by one story. I never posted up there because the angles were blocked by HVAC towers. But now I realize: they only blocked my sight.
Not theirs.
I unclip the photo.
Underneath is a note.
Printed. Block letters. Ink slightly smudged like it was folded too fast.
You’re not the only one watching her.
No signature.
Just the truth.
I stare at the words, and something tightens in the center of my chest like a trap closing too late.
The rules were always clear.
No attachments.
No deviations.
No bleeding heart under the uniform.
I turn the photo over.
There’s something faint on the back. Embossed, not written.
A logo. A mark.
At first, I think it’s Bureau.
But it’s not.
It’s a crest. An old one. European.
Obscure.
Blood-order level obscure.
I pull out the archive laptop and run a scan, but I already know it won’t hit on anything in the official database. This is deeper. Off-record.
One of the ghosts.
Someone from the past that wasn’t supposed to still be active.
And they’re using her to pull me out.
I sit back, press my palms together.
Lydia is the human variable. Unfortunately, she’s also the trigger.
Whoever this watcher is, they don’t want her gone.
They want her destabilized.
They want her to fall, and they want me to catch her.
Because that’s what makes agents crack.
Not torture.
Not pain.
Love.
Or the closest thing to it we’re still capable of.
I walk to the desk.
Open the drawer.
And pull out the thing I promised I’d never use again.
The original pistol. Pre-Bureau. No serial number—filed off years ago by someone who knew what they were doing. Not registered to me, not tied to any case, bought off the street with cash that left no trail.
It's not untraceable if I ever fire it—ballistics will still mark the bullet. But there's no paper trail leading back to me. No record of purchase, no registration, no connection to my real identity or my Bureau credentials.
It's a ghost. The kind of weapon you use when you can't afford to be who you really are.
I slide it into the holster beneath my jacket and close the drawer like I'm sealing a part of myself back inside the box.
Whoever they are...
They're not going to touch her.
Even if I have to burn through every identity I’ve ever worn to make sure of it.
And if I can’t save her?
Then at least I’ll be the one to end it.
Not them.
Me.