Chapter 4
MIA
Roger Mank is standing behind his desk, in a dark suit silhouetted against the grey London light filtering through a window he never opens.
At seventy, he’s still striking in a way that suggests he was devastating in his youth, with silver hair swept back from a face that belongs on currency.
Tabby likes to say he was the inspiration for James Bond, even though he was born decades after Fleming released the books.
Still, I think Mank takes it to heart, just a little.
He dresses immaculately, and he truly does love martinis and fast cars.
“Mia.” He says my name like a statement. I can’t get a read on him at all, which does nothing to ease my racing heart.
“Sir.”
“Close the door.”
I do, and the sounds of the office fade. Mank gestures to the chair across from his desk—real leather, the only comfortable seat in the building. I’ve sat in it exactly four times in eight years. Three were for commendations. The fourth was after Minsk.
I sit. He doesn’t.
There’s a photograph on his desk of him shaking hands with two different prime ministers.
Next to it, a picture of his wife Selma and teenage son Theo.
It took a few years before I had the nerve to ask who they were, since he never once mentioned being married, being a father, or having a family.
He still doesn’t talk about them much, probably an old habit from years of being a ghost.
“I heard from Van Veen’s people this morning,” he says.
My heart stumbles in my chest. “And?”
“And.” He lets the word hang there, the bloody bastard. Then, the corner of his mouth twitches—the closest Roger Mank ever gets to a smile. “Pack your bags, Baxter. You’re going to New York City.”
For a moment, I can’t breathe. “They approved it?”
“Conditional approval. Van Veen pushed it through personally—apparently, your proposal impressed her. Marsh had reservations, but she overruled him. And Elron, well, I don’t think anyone asks him anything anymore, thank the lord.” He pauses. “Vanguard himself signed off this morning.”
I think of him at the gala, the moment his eyes found mine across the courtyard. He saw me. Maybe he saw more than I intended. What made him change his mind? My wit? Or the fact that I looked good in that dress?
Don’t flatter yourself. This just proves what a puppet he is.
“When do I leave?”
“End of the week. But this isn’t a solo op.
We can’t take any risks. Bayo will run tech from a safehouse nearby.
Kat’s on the ground for support. You’ll be journalist Mia Baxter, staying in a nice, but not too nice, hotel, but they’ll both have new covers.
” He pauses. “We’re calling it Operation Gold Standard, because I like to think I still have a sense of humor. ”
I nod, trying to process.
This is everything I wanted.
Something loosens in my chest—a knot I didn’t realize I’d been carrying since Dmitri Olkov’s daughter smiled at me from a phone screen. My hands want to shake, but I don’t let them.
“Sir, I…” I hesitate. “Thank you. For giving me another chance.”
Mank’s expression shifts into something almost paternal. “I’m not giving you anything, Baxter. You earned this. The proposal was solid work—genuinely good. Whoever taught you to write a cover document did an excellent job.”
“That would be you, sir.”
“Yes, well.” He clears his throat. “Don’t let it go to your head, and I won’t let it go to mine.
This mission is delicate. Global Dynamix is one of the most powerful corporations on the planet, and Vanguard is their crown jewel.
We need to know what they’re really doing with him—whether he’s a genuine threat, whether he can be turned, whether there’s something bigger going on.
The Americans won’t share intel, so we’re getting it ourselves.
“There’s something else.” Mank slides a photograph across the desk.
It’s grainy, clearly taken from a distance, a dark humanoid figure against the sky.
“Our sources suggest Global Dynamix is developing a second enhanced asset. Codename: Paragon. We don’t know if it’s operational yet or how it may differ from Vanguard, but if they’re creating more of these… things, then we need to know about it.”
I pick up the photo and stare at it. Just what we need—another superhero.
“What about Kapoor?” I ask.
Raj Kapoor is…was…the scientist we turned into an asset who was investigating Global Dynamix before he vanished eighteen months ago. His file is one of the ones I spent three months ‘organizing.’ It’s also one of the ones that gave me nightmares.
Mank’s jaw tightens. “Kapoor is a secondary objective. If you can get any information about what happened to him, we want it, but your primary focus is Vanguard. Assess him. Profile him. Get close enough to understand what he really is.” He holds my gaze.
“And if he turns out to be as dangerous as some people fear…”
He doesn’t finish.
He doesn’t need to.
Seduce and destroy.
“Understood, sir.”
“Good.” He hands me the file from his desk. It’s heavier than it looks. “Full briefing at fourteen hundred, but I wanted you to see this first. Background on Global Dynamix leadership, Vanguard’s public record, and everything we have on Project Prometheus.”
“Project Prometheus?”
“It’s the program that created him. Or enhanced him, depending on who you believe.
Took him from soldier to super soldier to superhero.
Though now, we have reason to believe there’s more to the program than meets the eye.
A lot more.” His face is grim. “Read it before the meeting and tell me what you think.”
I take the file and stand to leave.
“One more thing.” His voice stops me at the door. “Van Veen didn’t just approve you, Mia. She said she made an exception for you that she won’t make for anyone else.”
That stops me cold. “Why would she do that?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? Either she sees something in you that’s useful to her agenda, or she doesn’t believe you are who you say you are.”
A chill skitters up my spine. “There’s no way she knows my true identity,” I say quietly.
“No, she most likely does not,” he says.
“We wouldn’t be doing this if your cover was already blown.
But that doesn’t mean we take things at face value.
She might think you’re digging for a hit piece, or you’re not a journalist at all and have been hired by their rivals, someplace like Titan Industries, to get the competitive edge.
Either way—watch yourself. That woman didn’t get where she is by being careless. ”
“Copy that.”
“And Mia?” I’m halfway through the door. “Whatever happened in Minsk—whatever made you hesitate—sort it out. Because where you’re going, hesitation gets people killed. I’d rather not lose another a person to Global Dynamix.”
“You won’t, sir,” I say. “I promise.”
I close the door behind me, the file clutched to my chest. Through the window, I can see the River House across the Thames, all that bulletproof glass glinting in the weak October sun.
It’s funny to think that, ultimately, someone in there just decided my fate, and if anything should go wrong, they’ll disavow any knowledge of my actions.
They’ll disavow that I was ever a person at all.
Everyone is gathered in the kitchen alcove when I approach: Bayo, Kat, Cal, Fi, even Tabby hovering with a fresh pot of tea. They all look up eagerly.
“Well?” Fi demands, practically vibrating. “Did we get it?”
I look at each of them in turn. My team. My family, in all the ways that count. The people who’ve dragged me out of burning buildings, held the line when everything went sideways, and pretended not to notice when I fell apart after Minsk.
“Start packing,” I say. “We’re going to New York, baby.”
Fi claps. “Hell yeah, you are.” Bayo grins and starts typing on his phone, already booking us flights, probably. Cal raises his mug in a silent toast, and for a moment, his eyes meet mine with an encouraging nod.
Only Kat remains still, ,watching me with that cool, assessing gaze.
“You’re ready for this?” she asks quietly in Russian. A test, as always.
“Da,” I reply, matching her. “Ya gotova.”
She nods slowly. Then she gives me the tiniest ghost of a smile.
“Good,” she says, switching back to English. “Because if Van Veen is as smart as her file suggests, she’s going to eat you alive.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m just warning you.” Kat steps closer, close enough that only I can hear. “That woman isn’t just intelligent—she’s obsessed. With Vanguard, with her work, with control. Obsessed people are dangerous, Mia. They don’t follow the rules.”
“Then good thing we don’t either.”
“No, but we know we’re breaking them. She thinks she’s above them entirely.” Kat holds my gaze. “Don’t let her get in your head. And don’t let him get anywhere else. Not unless you get the kill order.”
Before I can respond, she’s already walking away, phone in hand, coordinating logistics.
I stand in the middle of our ramshackle headquarters, surrounded by the smell of burnt toast and Earl Grey, the weight of the file in my hands and everything else pressing down on my shoulders.
In less than a week, I’ll be in New York, face-to-face again with a man who might be a hero or a weapon or something in between.