Chapter 20 Iris
IRIS
Maya is hunched over her laptop when I walk in.
She glances up, taking in my wrinkled clothes and probably the sex hair I haven’t bothered fixing. “Where the hell have you been?”
I drop onto the couch, exhaustion hitting hard now that adrenaline’s fading. “Alexi’s place.”
“Of course you were.” She closes her laptop. “While you were getting railed by your mortal enemy, I’ve been monitoring traffic on our networks. Someone pinged the backup server in Singapore twice in the last hour.”
“Probably routine.”
“At 4 AM? On a Saturday?” Maya stands, pacing. “What happened?”
I tell her everything. The Nightshade breach, Morrison’s payments from Sentinel Operations, and the government connection to my parents’ murder. Alexi’s promise to help. The meeting with his brothers.
By the time I finish, Maya’s gone pale.
“Pack a bag.”
“What?”
“Pack. A. Bag.” She’s already moving, grabbing her backpack from the closet. “We need to leave. Now.”
“Maya, stop.” I stand, blocking her path to the bedroom. “We covered our tracks. The decoys worked.”
“You breached a classified government system.” She shoves past me, yanking open dresser drawers. “You really think your little digital smoke show fooled the DoD?”
“It fooled them before.”
“Before, you weren’t actively investigating a black ops program that killed your parents and chasing the freaking dead-end they sent you after.” She throws clothes into the bag without folding them. “Before Morrison wasn’t getting paid to watch you specifically.”
“The trace went cold in Jakarta. They’ve got nothing.”
Maya whirls on me. “They don’t need proof, Iris. They need an excuse. And you just handed them one by sticking your nose into Nightshade.”
“We’ve been careful—”
“Careful doesn’t mean invisible.” She zips the bag. “How long until they connect the dots? Until they realize the girl whose parents they murdered is now the hacker who breached their operation?”
“They can’t prove—”
“They don’t have to prove anything. They’re the goddamn government.” Maya grabs her passport from the drawer. “They can disappear us both and call it national security.”
The door explodes inward.
Wood splinters across the floor as six operatives in black tactical gear storm through, weapons raised. Red laser sights paint dots across our walls.
“Federal agents! Get on the ground!”
Maya grabs my arm, yanking me toward the bedroom. We sprint down the hall as boots pound behind us.
“Panic room,” she gasps.
We reach the closet. Maya’s fingers fly across the hidden panel while I slam the bedroom door shut, buying us seconds. The lock clicks.
She tears clothes aside, revealing the reinforced door we installed last year—paranoia paying off. The panel reads her thumbprint, and the metal bolt slides back with a heavy thunk.
“Move!”
I dive through. Maya follows, slamming the door as footsteps thunder into the bedroom. The bolts engage automatically. Three inches of steel between us and them.
The space is six feet square. No windows. Emergency supplies line one wall—water, protein bars, burner phones. Maya’s breathing hard, pressed against the opposite wall.
Something impacts the door. Once. Twice. Testing.
“How long?” I whisper.
“Hour. Maybe two before they breach.” She’s already reaching for a burner phone. “We need—”
“No.” I grab her wrist. “They’ll triangulate the signal.”
“Then what?”
I pull out my own burner—one of five I keep stashed here. My fingers shake dialing the number I memorized this morning.
He answers on the first ring.
“Iris?”
“They’re here.” My voice cracks. “Armed operatives. Federal, maybe CIA. We made it to the panic room, but—”
Metal shrieks against metal. They’re using power tools on the hinges.
“Where are you exactly?” Alexi’s voice goes cold, controlled.
“My apartment.”
“How long can you hold?”
“Hour. Two at most.” The whine of the cutting torch intensifies. “Alexi, they’re going to take us.”
“No—”
“Listen to me.” Sparks shower through a growing gap at the door’s edge.
Of course, the feds would have cutting-edge technology.
This door should be able to resist most attempts to break through, but they’re cutting through it like butter.
“Morrison knows. About Nightshade, about my parents, about everything. This is a cleanup.”
“I’m coming—”
“You can’t.” The torch cuts deeper. “Not in time. There are too many.”
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the screech of tearing metal.
“Iris.” His voice drops. “Don’t let them separate you and Maya. Whatever happens, stay together. I will find you.”
The torch breaks through. Light floods our sanctuary.
“Time’s up,” Maya whispers.
The door crashes inward, taking half the wall with it.
I drop to my knees immediately, hands raised. Maya mirrors me, moving with practiced precision we drilled for this exact scenario.
“Don’t move!”
Six red dots dance across my chest. The lead operative—buzz cut, dead eyes—advances while his team spreads into formation.
“Hands behind your head. Fingers laced.”
I comply. The plastic digs into my wrists as the zip ties cinch tight. They yank Maya up first, her shoulder slamming into the doorframe.
“Easy!” I start to stand, but rough hands shove me back down.
“Shut up.”
They haul Maya through the ruined doorway. Her eyes meet mine—terrified but sharp. Calculating. Still fighting.
My turn. Strong grips under my arms, lifting. I stumble forward; my legs are unsteady. The apartment’s been torn apart. Furniture overturned, electronics smashed, my servers ripped from their mounts with wires dangling like severed arteries.
The burner phone is still clutched in my bound hands. I squeeze it once. Twice. Emergency beacon signal activating through triple-encrypted channels.
“Drop it.”
A boot connects with my ribs. Air explodes from my lungs, and the phone clatters away, skittering under the couch.
“Alexi—” I gasp his name before I can stop myself.
The lead operative’s expression shifts. Recognition. Something worse than rage—satisfaction.
“So, it’s true.” He grabs my jaw, forcing eye contact. “The Phantom’s fucking an Ivanov.”
Maya struggles against her captors. “Leave her alone!”
Movement from behind. Cloth appears over my shoulder—white, medical. The sharp chemical smell hits first.
Chloroform.
“No—” I twist, fighting, but hands lock around my skull. The fabric presses hard against the nose and mouth, cutting off air. Cutting off everything.
My vision doubles. Triples. The apartment tilts sideways.
“Iris!” Alexi’s voice explodes from the discarded phone, tinny and distant. “IRIS!”
His shout fragments into echoes. My knees buckle. Someone catches me—or maybe I’m falling, but I can’t tell anymore.
The world narrows to a pinpoint of light.
Then nothing.