Chapter 22 Iris
IRIS
Cold concrete against my cheek yanks me into consciousness after I feel a.
My head throbs. I try to move, but I can’t.
Flex-cuffs bite into my wrists, securing them behind a metal chair. Industrial zip ties, probably rated for two hundred pounds of force. My ankles are bound too, each one strapped to a chair leg.
Professional work.
The room comes into focus slowly. Concrete walls. No windows. There’s one single fluorescent light buzzing overhead, and a drain in the center of the floor.
“Maya?”
My voice comes out rough. Throat raw from whatever they used to knock me out.
A groan answers from my left.
I twist in the chair, ignoring the protest of strained muscles. Maya’s slumped in an identical metal chair three feet away, blonde hair hanging over her face.
“Maya, wake up.”
She lifts her head. Blood crusts her temple where they must’ve hit her.
“Iris?” Her eyes struggle to focus. “Where—”
“Don’t know. Just stay calm.”
“Stay calm?” Her voice pitches higher. “They grabbed us, drugged us, and you want me to—”
“Panicking won’t help.”
I scan the room. Steel door with no handle on this side. Security camera mounted in the corner, red light blinking. Two-way mirror along the right wall.
They’re watching.
“This is your fault.” Maya’s crying now. “I told you to leave them alone. Told you the Ivanovs were dangerous—”
“This isn’t the Ivanovs.”
“Then who?”
The door opens before I can answer.
Morrison walks in.
I recognize him from the NSA files I hacked. Late fifties, gray hair, expensive suit. Face like carved granite. He moves with the confidence of someone who’s done this a thousand times.
“Miss Mitchell.” He closes the door behind him with a soft click. “We finally meet in person.”
My stomach drops.
He pulls up a third metal chair and positions it directly in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne, which is overbearing.
“You’ve been busy.” Morrison crosses one leg over the other, casual.
Like we’re having coffee instead of him holding me hostage in a black site.
“Frankfurt. Luxembourg. That little trick with the DoD servers last week.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please.” He smiles. No warmth in it. “The Phantom’s digital signature is as distinctive as a fingerprint. Elegant. Precise. Your father taught you well.”
The mention of my father sends ice through my veins.
“Don’t talk about him.”
“David Mitchell. Brilliant cryptographer. NSA’s golden boy until he discovered something he shouldn’t have.” Morrison leans forward. “Sound familiar?”
Maya whimpers beside me.
“Let her go.” I keep my voice steady. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“Your roommate? The one whose network you’ve been routing your attacks through?” Morrison glances at Maya. “She’s complicit whether she knows it or not.”
“She doesn’t—”
“I don’t care.” He pulls a tablet from his jacket. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Miss Mitchell. You’re going to build me a backdoor into Ivanov Systems. Something their resident genius won’t detect.”
My heart hammers. “No.”
“No?” Morrison’s eyebrow arches. “Interesting choice.”
He stands, crossing to Maya’s chair and placing a hand on her shoulder.
She flinches.
“Let me rephrase.” Morrison’s fingers tighten. “You’ll do exactly what I say, or your friend pays the price.”
“Touch her and I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” He pulls a knife from his belt. Military issue, serrated edge. “You’re zip-tied to a chair in an undisclosed location. No one knows where you are. Your hacker boyfriend can’t track what doesn’t exist in any database.”
The blade catches the fluorescent light.
“Please.” Maya’s voice breaks. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t know about the files, I swear—”
“Iris?” Morrison presses the knife to Maya’s cheek. “Clock’s ticking.”
My mind races through options. None of them is good.
If I build a backdoor into Ivanov Systems, I’ll compromise Alexi’s entire operation.
“I need time.” The words taste like ash. “They’re encryption is quantum-level. I can’t decrypt it without—”
“Wrong answer.”
He drags the blade down Maya’s face.
Blood wells in the shallow cut.
Maya screams.
“Stop!” The word rips from my throat. “Stop, I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want.”
Morrison pulls the knife away, wiping Maya’s blood on his handkerchief. “Much better.”
He returns to his chair and retrieves the tablet. “You have forty-eight hours to build the Ivanov backdoor. You’ll work from this facility under surveillance. Any attempt to signal for help, any hidden code in your work—” He glances at Maya. “I start removing pieces.”
My stomach churns.
“Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Morrison stands. “We’ll provide you with a workstation. Food. Water. Everything you need except freedom.” He walks to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. “Your parents thought they could expose Nightshade, too. Look how that worked out.”
The door closes behind him with a hollow clang.
Maya’s sobbing, blood dripping from her cheek onto her shirt.
“I’m sorry.” My voice cracks. “Maya, I’m so sorry.”
“Just do what he says.” She won’t look at me. “Please, just do it.”
Bile rises in my throat.
I swallow it down, but the sickness remains—churning in my gut like acid.
This is my fault.
Every choice I made led here. Breaking into Nightshade. Refusing to stay at Alexi’s penthouse.
He knew. Alexi fucking knew they’d come for us, but I was too stubborn to listen.
Maya’s quiet now, tears streaming silently down her face. Blood still drips from the cut on her cheek—shallow but deliberate.
And it’s because of me.
“Maya—”
“Don’t.” Her voice comes out hollow. “Just don’t.”
My chest tightens.
She told me to stop. Begged me to leave the Ivanovs alone and warned me I was playing with fire.
I didn’t listen then either.
“I should’ve listened to Alexi.” The confession tastes bitter. “He said going home would put you in danger.”
“Then why didn’t you stay with him?”
Valid question.
One that I can’t answer without admitting the truth—I panicked. Saw Alexi gathering his brothers, making plans, taking control of my vendetta.
My investigation.
My revenge.
Pride made me walk out that door.
Pride got Maya hurt.
“Because I’m an idiot.” I yank against the flex-cuffs. They don’t budge. “Because I thought I could protect you better than he could.”
“How’s that working out?”
The sarcasm cuts deep.
Maya finally looks at me. Mascara tracks down her cheeks, mixing with blood. Eyes red-rimmed and accusing.
“You were supposed to be the smart one, Iris. The one who thinks ten steps ahead.” She laughs without humor. “But you can’t even follow basic instructions when someone’s trying to keep you alive.”
She’s right.
Alexi laid out the danger in explicit terms. Told me Morrison would be monitoring me. Explained how any contact with Maya would light us up like a beacon.
I went anyway.
Convinced myself I knew better.
The door opens again.
Different guard this time. Tall, muscle-bound, face like carved granite. He cuts Maya’s restraints first, hauling her to her feet.
“Wait—” I start.
“Shut up.” He doesn’t even glance at me. “You talk when Morrison says you can talk.”
Maya stumbles as he drags her toward the door. She looks back once, fear and betrayal warring in her expression.
Then she’s gone.
The door slams shut.
I’m alone with the buzzing fluorescent light and the camera’s blinking red eye.
Minutes crawl by. Could be ten. Could be thirty. Time loses meaning in rooms like this—that’s the point. Sensory deprivation. Isolation. Break you down until compliance seems easier than resistance.
My wrists ache from the flex-cuffs. Shoulders are screaming from the awkward position. Thirst starts to claw at my throat—chloroform dehydrates you, leaves your mouth tasting like chemicals and regret.
The camera watches.
Always watching.
I wonder if Alexi’s searching for me. If he’s tearing apart Boston’s digital infrastructure, trying to find Morrison’s black site. If he’s calling in every favor the Ivanovs have ever earned.
Or if he’s written me off as a lost cause.
Can’t exactly blame him if he has. I walked out of his penthouse after he begged me to stay. Ignored his warnings and landed Maya in danger, and me right into Morrison’s hands.
Everything he predicted came true.
The door opens a third time.
Morrison again, carrying a laptop and a power cord. He sets up a folding table in front of me and positions the laptop at eye level.
“Let’s begin.” He cuts my wrist restraints. Blood rushes back into my hands, pins and needles dancing up my arms. “You have forty-eight hours. I suggest you don’t waste them.”
The laptop screen glows to life.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
One choice: betray Alexi’s family by building Morrison’s backdoor, or watch Maya pay the price for my mistakes.
Either way, I destroy someone I care about.