CHAPTER 8 #2
My fingers refuse to stop shaking as I pull the phone from my waistband and punch in the encrypted, unlisted direct line for Trenton Cross.
I’ve dialed this number a thousand times in my head over the last three years.
My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird trying to break the cage.
Every electronic trill of the outgoing call feels like a countdown to my execution or my salvation.
I grip the edge of the marble vanity so hard my knuckles turn stark white, a cold drip of water falling from my chin and soaking into my shirt.
Pick up, Trenton. For the love of God, pick up the phone.
The ringing stops with a sharp, digital click.
The line is open, but there is only heavy, expectant silence on the other end.
No 'hello,' no identifying agency greeting.
Protocol dictates the handler speaks first with a coded verification, but the white noise stretches on until the air in the bathroom feels way too thin to breathe.
I bite down on my inner cheek until I taste copper.
The faint white noise of the secure line buzzes in my ear, matching the pounding rhythm of my pulse and the rushing water.
He's there. I can literally hear him breathing. Why the fuck isn't he speaking?
"Code check. Respond," I whisper, my voice harsh.
Nothing.
I hunch over the sink, pulling the phone closer to my mouth as if I can hide the words from the air itself.
"Osprey down. Cover blown. I need immediate exfil at the primary target's residence.
Status: Compromised." I wait for the rapid-fire tactical confirmation, the coordinates for a safehouse, the sound of heavily armed men gearing up.
Instead, I hear the distinct, melodic clink of ice against a crystal glass.
My blood turns to absolute ice. That is not the sound of a chaotic command center. That is the sound of a man sitting in a leather chair enjoying a drink. "Cross? Are you copying?"
Another sharp clink of ice, followed by a long, satisfied exhale over the line.
"Cross, are you there?" I demand, my voice cracking humiliatingly.
There’s a long, agonizing pause before Trenton finally sighs. It’s a sound of profound, irritated boredom. "Damn it, Heller."
His voice is perfectly smooth, entirely devoid of any professional urgency.
It’s the tone of a man whose pleasant evening has been mildly inconvenienced by a telemarketer.
My stomach plummets straight through the floor.
I reach out to turn the water higher, my hand trembling so violently that I splash water across the mirror.
"You always were too persistent for your own good," Trenton says casually. The distortion of the cheap burner phone speaker makes him sound metallic, distant.
"You're not supposed to be calling me, Alessia. By my clock, you're supposed to be a stain on Leon Falk's floor by now."
The words don't compute. My FBI-conditioned brain aggressively searches for a double meaning, a duress code, a hidden instruction wrapped in the insult. But there is nothing. Just the raw, unfiltered fact of my own intended death. I slide down the side of the vanity, my legs giving out completely, until I’m crouching on the freezing cold marble floor.
The damp bathroom rug seeps through my trousers.
"Why are you still breathing, Alessia?" he asks, genuinely curious. "I figured he’d have put a bullet in you the second he saw that file."
"How did he get the file?" I choke out, the metallic taste of blood heavy on my tongue. The sharp, rhythmic dripping of the faucet behind me sounds like a metronome for a bomb.
Trenton chuckles. It’s a dark, wet sound that makes me want to vomit. "I delivered it personally, Alessia. Leon didn't even have to pay that much. He was actually surprised I made it so easy. It was a business transaction, Heller. Don't take it personally."
The entire foundation of my reality—the three years of meticulously destroying my own life, the isolation, the lies I told every single day for the 'greater good'—disintegrates into ash.
The man who recruited me straight out of the academy, the guy who sat in the front row at my graduation and pinned my badge, is the one who put a price tag on my head.
I dig my nails into my palms, trying to use the sharp pain to stay grounded in my own body.
"Missing seizure funds," Trenton says, explaining it with the clinical detachment of an accountant reviewing a spreadsheet.
"I needed a place to bury a few million dollars, and burning a deep-cover agent in a mob boss's lap was the perfect way to tie up the loose ends.
Nobody looks at the handler when the agent gets made by the cartel.
They just assume you slipped up. You were always a good soldier.
You were the perfect hero, Alessia. Now you're just a tragic casualty of organized crime. "
A casualty. I am just a line item in his fucking retirement budget. I pull my knees tightly to my chest, rocking slightly as the betrayal sinks its teeth into my throat. The roaring of the water above me seems to get louder, more chaotic, the bathroom lights flickering slightly overhead.
"I'll go to IA," I say, my voice dripping with a desperate, pathetic attempt at leverage. "I'll burn you to the ground, Trenton."
"Go ahead. Who's going to believe a mob whore?" he replies smoothly. "I’ve already flagged your file. You’re a rogue operative who turned for the syndicate. If you step out of that penthouse, my tactical teams have shoot-to-kill orders. You’re a terrorist now, Heller.
They won't even ask for your badge. They'll just open fire. "
Every single bridge is burned to cinders.
If I stay inside this penthouse, I am a prisoner to a violent criminal.
If I walk out that front door, I am a target practice dummy for the men I used to call my brothers.
I grip the phone so hard the cheap plastic casing begins to creak under the pressure.
Distant sirens echo through the glass of the penthouse somewhere in the city below, sounding less like a rescue and more like a threat.
"Do us both a favor, Alessia. Let Falk finish it. It’ll be cleaner that way," Trenton says. "Goodbye, Heller."
The line goes dead with a hollow, electronic beep.
The silence that follows the click is more violent than any gunshot I’ve ever heard.
The absolute finality of the disconnected call leaves me entirely untethered, floating in a void.
I slowly pull the phone away from my ear, the heat of the battery lingering against my cheek, and stare blankly at the 'Call Ended' screen. He’s gone. They’re all gone.
I am a woman without a country, a name, or a future.
My hands are shaking so violently now that the device slips right out of my sweat-slicked grip.
It clatters loudly against the marble sink basin, the plastic hitting the stone like a thunderclap in the small room.
I don't even try to catch it. I just watch it sit in the sink, the running water splashing over its cheap screen, shorting it out. Three years of trauma, the blood I’ve watched spill, the nightmares—all of it for a man who just told me to die quietly so he could buy a boat.
I grip the edges of the vanity and haul my dead weight up from the floor.
I stare straight into the mirror at my own pale, haunted reflection.
My eyes look entirely hollow, deadened out.
My dark auburn hair is messy and damp from the sink’s spray, clinging to the sides of my face.
I look like a complete stranger. I am looking at a dead woman walking.
The cold water is still running over my numb hands, the harsh fluorescent light highlighting every single line of exhaustion on my face.
I reach up and touch my reflection’s cheek, my finger leaving a greasy smudge on the pristine glass.
Then, the pieces of Leon's psychological game violently snap into place, hitting me hard enough to knock the wind out of my lungs.
The book. The burner phone. The sheer ease of the discovery.
I realize exactly why he left it there. He didn't want to catch me calling the FBI.
He didn't need to prove my loyalty to his syndicate.
He wanted me to call Trenton. He wanted me to hear the absolute truth from the horse's mouth.
I reach out and shut the water off abruptly.
The sudden silence rings in my ears, deafening and clear.
He didn't trap me. He showed me that the exit door I was looking for was actually a cliff.
Leon already knew Trenton sold me out. He wanted me to realize that the 'good guys' had actively abandoned me to the wolves.
The monster I was sent to destroy is the only goddamn shield I have left.
The agency I swore my life to protect is the one aiming a sniper rifle at my head.
The cognitive dissonance is loud enough to make my teeth ache.
I reach forward, grab a plush towel, and violently dry my face.
The burner phone sits heavy and dead in the sink basin.
Leon isn't the enemy anymore. He's the only truth I have left in this entire messed-up world.
He wants to own me, but at least he has the decency to look me in the eye when he says it.
I drop the towel on the counter and look toward the locked bathroom door.
The power dynamic hasn't just shifted; it’s completely inverted.
I am not his captive anymore. I'm his refugee. And I know he’s standing somewhere out there in that massive penthouse, waiting to see if I’ve finally learned my lesson.
I take a deep, steadying breath, reach out, and unlock the door. The click sounds like a starting gun.
Alright, Leon. You won. Now what?