Code Name: Nitro (Club Opus Noir #4)

Prologue

ISABELLA

Geneva, Switzerland

Six Weeks Ago

The moment I discover my mentor has weaponized my life's work and sold it to terrorists is unremarkable—just me, cold coffee, and his unlocked computer glowing with evidence that will get me killed.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead while I lean back in my chair, rubbing eyes that burn from staring at compound structures all day.

Outside the facility's reinforced windows, Lake Geneva stretches dark and still under a moonless sky.

Most of the building sleeps—just security making rounds and obsessive scientists like me who've forgotten what reasonable working hours look like.

My aerosolized delivery system finally stabilized days ago. Medical-grade precision, particle size optimized for deep lung penetration, dispersal radius controllable down to the meter. Designed to deliver life-saving treatments to quarantine zones, disaster sites, anywhere traditional methods fail.

At least, that's what I believed when I signed the contract.

My coffee's gone bitter in the mug beside my keyboard. The taste makes me grimace, but I drink it anyway while pulling up tomorrow's presentation files. The investors want proof of concept before releasing the next round of funding. Standard procedure—this dance is familiar.

Except my laptop's running slower than usual tonight.

Frowning, I check the system monitor. Processing power's being diverted. Background tasks running that shouldn't be. My pulse kicks up a notch as I trace the activity back to a networked connection I didn't authorize.

Someone's accessing the shared server. After hours. From Dr. Emil Rousseau's workstation.

Emil left only an hour ago. Mentioned something about his daughter's recital, kissed my cheek in that absent professorial way he has, reminded me not to work too late. He's been my mentor since Zurich, the one who recruited me to this project, who promised me we'd change emergency medicine forever.

His computer's still logged in across the lab.

Professional curiosity wars with the instinct that something's wrong. The same instinct that made me choose science over my family's shipping empire, that pushed me through every glass ceiling academia threw up, that refuses to accept things at face value.

Crossing the pristine white floor between our stations takes seconds that feel like minutes. Emil's workspace looks exactly as he left it: journals stacked precisely, coffee mug washed and drying on the small towel he keeps for that purpose, family photos arranged just so. Everything in its place.

Everything except his screen, still glowing with an active session.

My fingers hover over his keyboard. This violates every protocol we have. Privacy, professional boundaries, basic respect. But that background process is pulling data from our shared research files. Large files. The kind that contain months of proprietary work.

The screen wakes at my touch.

Password-protected folders fill the display. Encryption I don't recognize. File names that mean nothing: Project_Cascade_Final, Delivery_Specs_Modified, Buyer_List_Confirmed.

Buyer list?

My breath stops. We don't have buyers. We have investors. Medical foundations. University partnerships. Government health organizations reviewing our work for potential emergency response applications.

Not buyers.

My hand moves before my brain catches up, clicking on the first file.

Encrypted. Of course. But Emil's terrible with security protocols—brilliant with chemistry, catastrophically lazy with digital hygiene.

His daughter's birthday unlocks nothing.

Wedding anniversary, nothing. The facility code he uses for everything despite IT's constant warnings.

The file opens.

Technical specifications fill the screen. My specifications. My delivery system. But the application parameters have been modified.

My dispersal radius was five hundred meters, controlled and precise for medical deployment. This shows two thousand meters. My particle density was optimized for therapeutic absorption—point-three microns. This reads point-one-five microns. Weaponized aerosol density.

Chemical payload capacity makes my stomach lurch as the numbers scroll past. Where I designed slots for antibiotics, antivirals, emergency medications, someone's entered different designations.

VX-class compounds. Sarin derivatives. Biological agent designations I recognize from my coursework on defensive countermeasures. Chemical formulas that exist solely to kill efficiently and silently.

My elegant, precise, life-saving technology has been turned into a weapon of mass murder.

The next file opens before conscious thought. Buyer_List_Confirmed.

Organization names. Country codes. Entity designations. I watch international news religiously, read journals, follow geopolitical developments because my work touches global health crises. These names don't trigger specific recognition, but the pattern is unmistakable.

Al-Nidal East Africa Cell. The designation structure matches militant organizations I've seen referenced in security briefings.

águila Roja Logistics—the naming convention typical of Latin American cartel operations.

Three entries showing country codes for nations currently under international weapons sanctions.

Obsidian Strategic Solutions—a private military contractor name that sounds like dozens I've read about in investigative journalism pieces on mercenary operations in conflict zones.

Each entry shows: deposit amount, delivery timeline, compound specifications matched to payload capacity.

They're selling my work. Selling it to people who will use it to kill thousands.

Shaking takes over my hands so completely I have to grip the edge of Emil's desk. The man who smiled at me over coffee this morning. Who praised my breakthrough last week. Who I trusted absolutely.

Was any of it real?

Bile rises but focus cuts through nausea. Evidence. Without evidence, this is just my word against theirs, and these people—whoever they are—have resources I can only imagine. Money. Power. The kind that makes whistleblowers disappear.

My encrypted drive sits in my laptop across the lab. Personal storage, separate from the facility's network. Bought precisely because cloud systems can't be trusted with my research.

Each step back across the white floor echoes too loud in the silent space. My laptop waits where I left it, screen dark, innocent.

The connection to Emil's shared access opens easily. Files start copying.

Everything. Buyer lists. Modified specifications. Email chains discussing "product delivery" and "payload customization." Financial records showing deposits in the millions. Communication logs with contacts in countries that shouldn't have access to this technology.

Months of conspiracy downloading onto a drive small enough to fit in my pocket.

The progress bar crawls. Sixty percent. Seventy. My eyes keep jumping to the lab's entrance. Security makes rounds regularly. Last pass was a while ago. Time's running out.

Eighty-five percent.

Come on. Come on.

Footsteps echo in the hallway outside.

My heart stops. Too early for the scheduled round. Too heavy for the cleaning crew.

Ninety-two percent.

The footsteps pause outside the door. A keycard beeps. The magnetic lock disengages with a sharp click that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet.

Ninety-eight percent.

Emil walks in.

He freezes when he sees me standing at my laptop. His gaze flicks to his glowing workstation across the lab. Back to me. Understanding dawns across familiar features—the mentor I trusted now looks like a stranger.

"Isabella." His voice stays carefully neutral. "Working late?"

"I could ask you the same thing." My hand hovers near my laptop, not quite touching the encrypted drive. "Thought you had your daughter's recital."

"Ended early. She wasn't feeling well." He moves into the lab slowly, carefully, the way you approach a spooked animal. "What’s going on?"

Ninety-nine percent.

"Your computer was running processes that slowed my work. Just checking if you'd left something intensive running." The lie comes easily. Too easily. My mother would be proud—years of navigating French society taught me to smile while lying through my teeth.

Emil's eyes narrow slightly. Calculating. Weighing whether to believe me.

One hundred percent. Download complete.

The drive ejects with a soft click. Sliding it into my pocket feels like defusing a bomb—one wrong move and everything explodes. "Heading out. Long day."

"Isabella." He says my name like he's testing it. "What did you see?"

Every instinct screams run. But running confirms guilt. Confusion settles over my expression with practiced ease. "See? Emil, what's wrong? You're acting strange."

"My files." Another step closer. "Were you accessing my files?"

"System check. You know how paranoid I get about data security." Gathering things becomes autopilot. Laptop. Notes. Coffee mug. End-of-day routine. Nothing suspicious. "You should change your password. Using the facility code is asking for trouble."

Something flickers in his expression. Relief? Or calculation that I'm lying?

"You're right." Posture relaxes slightly. "I've been meaning to update it. You know how it is—always putting off the tedious security protocols."

"Which is why I nag you constantly." The laptop bag zips closed, hopefully hiding how my hands shake. "Go home, Emil. Get some sleep. We have the investor presentation tomorrow morning."

"Yes. The presentation." He watches me move toward the door. "Isabella, about the project..."

The door's within reach. Don't stop. Don't give him time to think.

"We'll review everything in a few hours," tossed over my shoulder. "I want fresh eyes on the dispersal calculations one more time."

The keycard beeps. Lock releases.

"Isabella."

Every muscle tenses.

"Drive safely. The roads are wet tonight."