Chapter 16 – Silas - Break Protocol #4
"Scare tactics from when the job was still active. Thought maybe I could push her to leave Drazen on her own, make things easier." He coughs again. "But then everything collapsed, and I was just... still here."
I stare down at him, processing.
"You said I'm too late. Too late for what?"
"Too late because there's nothing left to stop. The threat's gone. You're chasing ghosts." His eyes meet mine. "Just like me."
I release him slowly, step back.
He stays on the ground, breathing hard, bleeding.
I drag him by the collar.
Out.
Into the vehicle I parked in the alley.
—
Naomi meets me two hours later behind the floodlight checkpoint on Greenvale.
She doesn’t ask questions.
I toss the unconscious body into her custody.
“He’s yours,” I say. “Don’t let him crawl back out.”
Naomi doesn’t say a word at first. She just watches the two field agents drag Kellan’s unconscious body away like it’s not personal. Like it doesn’t mean something that we buried him once and had to do it again.
Her hands are in her coat pockets, but I know her left thumb is tracing the curve of her ring. The way it always does when she thinks a piece moved without her permission.
She doesn’t like being surprised.
And tonight, I surprised her.
“You didn’t kill him,” she says.
“I should’ve.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“I’m not.”
Naomi’s hands curl into fists, but she doesn’t argue. She steps closer, lowering her voice even though we’re the only ones left out here.
“He’ll be interrogated at one of ours,” she says. “The deep sites. South line. No record.”
“No leaks?”
“Not from me.”
I nod. That’s as much insurance as I’m going to get.
She holds out the key. Silver teeth, black grip. Heavy. Stamped with nothing.
“Here,” she says. “Redhook. Industrial Lofts. Top floor. Backstairs. Unlisted registry. No internal cams. No digital IDs. I scrubbed the lease myself.”
I take it from her.
The weight of it settles in my hand like it belongs.
She watches me too long after that.
I can feel it.
"You're compromised," she says flatly.
"I'm still operational."
"For now." She leans back, arms crossed. "You realize if anyone finds out about this place—about her—there's no cleaning it up. You're either her shadow or her executioner. There's no third option."
"I've already chosen."
"Yeah. I know." Her voice is ice. "And here's what's going to happen. You check in every 48 hours. You don't make a move without clearing it with me first. And if I call you in, you come in. No arguments. No excuses."
"Naomi—"
"I'm not done." She leans forward, eyes hard. "You think I'm letting this continue because I trust your judgment? I don’t. I'm letting it continue because right now, you're useful. Lydia's close to Drazen. You're close to her. That gives us leverage we didn't have before."
"So you're using me."
"I'm using the situation." She doesn't blink. "But the second you stop being useful—or the second you become a liability—I will pull you out. And I won't ask twice. Understood?"
I hold her gaze. "Understood."
"Good." She starts to move then stops. "One more thing."
I wait.
"The leak. I've been running internal audits. Access logs, procurement records, communication patterns. I've narrowed it down to five possibles—three in cyber, two in operations."
"That's progress."
"It's not enough." She rubs her left brows in frustration. "Until I know who's feeding Drazen information, I can't risk making moves that might tip them off. Which means you stay exactly where you are. No sudden changes. Business as usual."
"So I'm bait."
"You're exposed either way. Pulling you out now would signal that we know about the leak.
Whoever's dirty would go dark, and we'd lose our chance.
" She pauses. "So yes, you stay in place while I work.
And you'd better be careful, because if the leak figures out you're onto them before I catch them, you're on your own. "
"How long?"
"Days. Maybe a week. I'm close." Her eyes are hard. "But until then, you follow protocol. You check in. You stay smart. And you pray I find them before they find you."
I nod once.
She walks a few step away, then looks back at me.
"And Silas? Pray you're right about her too. Because if you're wrong—if she's playing you, or if Drazen figures out what you are—it won't just be your career that's over. It'll be your life."
I say nothing.
Not because I'm finished.
Because there's nothing left to say.
I turn toward the street, key pressed deep into my palm, and head for the car. Red light bleeds across the dashboard when I start the engine. Something inside me burns hotter than it should.
It’s not adrenaline anymore.
It's an obsession.
The building sits quiet, wedged between two gutted warehouses and a half-lit bodega that’s never open on time. Naomi didn’t give details when she handed me the key, just told me where: Redhook.
I unlock the door.
Step inside.
The apartment is already furnished, enough to pass for lived-in but not burdened by any personal touches that give an owner away. Two bedrooms. One full bath. Neutral tones. Steel hardware. A couch that looks like it’s been sat on maybe twice. No dust, which means someone cleaned before I arrived.
But it doesn’t smell like anything. Not sweat, not soap, not air freshener.
Just new paint and blank intentions.
The kind of place that waits for its lies to be told.
I step deeper, dropping my coat over a high-backed chair near the kitchen pass-through. The table has no scuffs. The silverware is still sealed in plastic in the drawer. There’s a made-up bed in each room, the kind hotels dress up to look expensive, even when they’re not.
One of them will be hers.
I take the smaller one. Not because I’m noble, but because it’s closer to the exit.
The water runs clean. I test the taps. The shower's hot. No rattle in the pipes. There's a faint mark on the wall near the fuse box; someone’s knuckle, maybe. A sign that whoever set this place up didn’t use gloves. A Bureau print, probably.
Naomi wouldn't miss something like that. Which means maybe she wanted me to find it.
Fine.
I strip, step under the water, and scrub the day off my skin like it’s blood.
By the time I step out, I already know the story I’ll tell Lydia.
This is mine. It can also be a fallback for her too.
It will be. For her. I’ll make sure of it.
I towel off, change into a plain black shirt and clean jeans. A spare I always have in the car, then make a mental list, things I’ll need to get to make the place believable.
It needs to sell as mine, not just because I’ll bring her here, but because she doesn't deserve another manipulation disguised as protection. I can't tell her everything yet. But I can give her something real.
Coffee. Mugs. A throw blanket for the couch. Something in the fridge… doesn't even matter what, just enough to make it look like I come here after long nights and bad calls.
She’ll know if it’s fake.
I sleep there. Half on the couch, half conscious. The kind of sleep you only get when your body stops before your mind does. Morning’s a suggestion, not an arrival. It comes in through the window like fog.
The phone buzzes before I’ve even stood up.
Drazen: Midday. You’ll be briefed. Location comes 30 minutes before.
I stare at the screen.
Short. Vague. That means a high-level company. Maybe partners. Maybe outsiders. And Lydia will be there. Of course she will.
I stare at the message, then glance at the clock.
There’s still time.
I toss the phone on the table and drag a hand through my hair. I move to the bathroom, splash water on my face, then, I leave.
The plan is to hit the market two blocks west, but the market, I make one quick stop.
The apartment the Bureau set me up with still has my duffel. I retrieve it in less than four minutes. Black boots, some clean shirts, one towel, razor, deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrush – the last of my pistols left stashed here.
No one sees me come or go.
Then I head to the market.
I don’t buy much. Just the things that make it look like I live here:
A French press.
Ground coffee.
Two matte-black mugs.
A six-pack of water.
Eggs. Matches. A pack of gum.
A plain cotton blanket for the couch.
A new set of boxer briefs and one grey tee — for her, even if she never wears them.
It’s not furniture she’ll believe.
It’s the clutter.
The noise of a man pretending not to be alone.
At checkout, I realize I’m nesting like a goddamn boyfriend, which is funny, considering I’m also lying straight to her face.
Because I already found the man who watched her.
And I’m not going to tell her.
Not yet. The mystery isn’t solved—it’s just changed shape. Kellan was the knife. Someone else may have held the handle. And if I tell Lydia the truth now, it puts her closer to the blade.
She’s safer not knowing.
By the time I return, it’s close to ten. I open the window in the living room to change the atmosphere. Set the mugs by the sink. Place the blanket half-folded on the armrest. The lights stay off. This place should glow like it was always dim.
For backup, I reinforce the front door with a wedge bar from my trunk. Then I walk down to the curb and install two cameras of my own: one watching the alley behind the building, the other angled toward the stairwell exit.
Both are hardwired. No Wi-Fi. No signals that can be picked up.
Not Bureau.
Mine.
It takes a full hour.
Then I hit the shower, clean up, brush up and have a change of clothes.
I sit on the edge of the bed in the smaller room to take it all in when my phone buzzes again.
Drazen: Location - Solstice Club. Top floor. Use staff entrance. No delays.
Solstice.
Not a briefing. A performance.
That means masks.
I don’t reply. Just stand and grab my coat.
She’ll be there.
And I’ll have to keep a straight face while Drazen presses his hand into her waist like she belongs to him.
But by the time the night’s over, I’ll remind her she doesn’t.