Chapter 1 #2
I nod once. Tears sting my eyes, unbidden, blurring the data.
My fingers slip inside the bag’s outer pocket.
Papers. Receipts. Nothing. Then the inner pocket—finding the small slit he mentioned, barely visible unless you know the pattern.
The USB drive sits there. Small and warm, like it’s been absorbing his body heat.
It disappears into my bra while my other hand stays on his wrist. To any observer, I’m checking his pulse. Good Samaritan doing what she can.
“Go.” More blood now. Pooling faster. Darker. Arterial. “Before they come back.”
He’s dying. The realization hits not as a fact, but as a hollow ache in my chest.
“I’m not leaving you.” My throat burns.
“Have to.” His eyes drift shut, then snap open with desperate clarity.
Ice floods my veins. If they tracked Victor here. If they know about me …
“Go.” The word is a gurgle. “Run …”
Sirens wail in the distance—bouncing off glass and steel. The crowd presses closer. Phones out. Recording tragedy for social media consumption. Someone’s livestreaming. Digital vultures circling the carcass.
“Did anyone see what happened?” An older man kneels beside me, hands hovering uncertainly over Victor’s broken body.
“Black SUV. No plates.” I stand. My legs shake violently, adrenaline crashing against shock. “The driver aimed right for him.”
Victor’s breathing grows shallow. Stops. Starts again. Weaker. Then nothing.
The variable becomes a constant.
I back away as more people crowd in. Someone claiming to be a nurse pushes forward. Another calls 911 again. Voices overlapping in chaos.
I walk away. Each step measured. Normal. Don’t run. Running attracts the eye. The drive presses against my chest—seventy-three deaths encoded in silicon and plastic.
Single point of failure.
The thought crystallizes with mathematical clarity. If they take me now, the evidence dies with me. Victor’s death becomes meaningless.
Seventy-three victims stay buried.
High probability they’re already mobilizing to sweep the scene. Near certainty this drive won’t survive if I’m taken.
Need redundancy. Now.
An internet café three blocks north flashes in my memory—anonymous terminals, no account required, cash only. Risky, but less risky than carrying the only copy. Every second without backups increases the odds of total evidence loss.
I duck inside. Burnt coffee and desperation assault my nostrils again—stale air recycled through cheap filters, unwashed bodies, the chemical sweetness of energy drinks. The teenager behind the counter doesn’t even glance up from his phone. Earbuds blocking out the world.
Perfect.
I slide into a terminal at the back, angled so I can monitor the door.
My movements are automatic, disconnected from the shaking in my hands.
Fingers flying across keys. Three minutes to copy the drive to a new USB from the basket of extras they sell.
I slip both drives inside my bra for safe keeping.
Another minute to upload encrypted backups to cloud servers I maintain under false identities.
Habits from my FBI days. Habits that might save my life.
My phone vibrates. Morrison’s number.
“Singh. What’s up?”
“Remember that whistleblower situation?” I keep my voice low, back pressed to the wall. “High-priority corporate malfeasance with significant casualties.”
“Yes?” Keys click on his end.
“Victor Lawson was just hit. Professional job. I have what he was carrying.”
Silence stretches. Two heartbeats. Then his breathing changes—controlled, operational.
“Where are you?”
“Internet café, Third and Madison.”
“Stay public. I’ll be there in twelve minutes.”
“Will do.”
The upload completes. I pocket both drives, leave a twenty on the counter, and step back onto the street. The rain has started again, a soft mist that makes everything look like a watercolor painting slowly dissolving.
Morrison’s sedan slides to the curb exactly eleven minutes later. Government plates. Bulletproof glass. Subtle tells for those who know the pattern. The passenger window lowers.
“Get in.”
I slip inside. The interior smells like coffee and gun oil—burnt grounds and CLP solvent. It smells like safety. Morrison looks exactly as he did when I left the Bureau. Crisp suit that never wrinkles. Sharp eyes that miss nothing. Worry lines that have deepened into permanent grooves.
He pulls into traffic, smooth but fast, eyes constantly scanning mirrors.
“Do they know about you?” His tone is conversational. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
“Unknown.” The original drive burns against my skin. “Victor was paranoid. Thought he was being followed.”
“Paranoid people—”
“Live longer. Usually.” I pull the drive free. It’s warm from my skin, slightly damp with sweat. “Clinical trials. Cover-ups. Payoffs. All documented.”
He pockets it with the kind of ease that comes from years of handling dangerous evidence. “Backups?”
“Multiple.”
“Good girl.” A sharp right turn, then a left. Anti-surveillance driving. “This goes deeper than Meridian?”
“Four other pharmaceutical companies. Same patterns.” The words come clipped. Factual. It’s easier to speak in data than to think about the pink foam on Victor’s lips. “Connected through parent company—Nexus Holdings. Statistical probability of coincidence—”
“Zero. I know how you think, Singh.” Another turn. “Protected by?”
“People who commit murder in broad daylight.”
That gets his attention. His eyes flick to mine in the mirror. “Come again?”
“Victor said he was being watched.” My fingers find my collarbone, pressing into the scar tissue there. Grounding myself.
Morrison reaches into his jacket and produces a plain business card. No name, no logo. Just ten digits in black ink.
“If something happens to me, call this number.” He presses it into my palm. “These people operate outside the system. They’re ghosts.”
“That’s paranoid, even for you.”
“After what you just witnessed?” His smile lacks humor. “Paranoia seems like basic math.”
He pulls over six blocks from my building. “Go home, pack light, get somewhere safe. I’ll dig into this quietly, build a case the right way. I’ll contact you when I have protection in place.”
“James—”
“No arguments. You know what these people are capable of.”
I exit without another word. Morrison’s taillights disappear into traffic, red dots swallowed by the city.
At my apartment door, I check for signs of tampering. Doorframe dust undisturbed. Lock scratches match my key pattern. The wood around the deadbolt shows no fresh marks. Inside, Nathan’s boxes line the hallway—monuments to last night’s relationship funeral.
I step around them, each one labeled in my precise handwriting: “Kitchen - Fragile,” “Books - Study,” “Bedroom - Misc.” Three years condensed into cardboard and packing tape.
The laptop waits on my kitchen counter. The USB slides into the port with a soft click. Files cascade across the screen—spreadsheets, documents, video files. Deaths, cover-ups, payoffs, all meticulously documented. Victor’s obsessive nature might be the only reason these victims get justice.
I create more copies. One hidden behind the bathroom mirror. One under the kitchen drawer. One in the freezer inside a vacuum-sealed bag labeled “Soup Stock 3/15.”
Redundancies. Paranoid people live longer.
The espresso machine on the counter catches my eye—the Williams-Sonoma model I bought Nathan for Christmas. I calculated how much we’d save versus daily coffee shop visits. Practical. Analytical.
“Three years of this, Talia.” His voice echoes from last night, when everything finally shattered. “Three years of calculated responses, measured reactions. You don’t feel things—you process them. You simulate emotions because real ones might mess up your data.”
“That’s not fair—”
“Isn’t it?” He stepped closer, his cologne sharp and pungent. “When we make love, you’re cataloging responses. When we fight, you’re analyzing patterns.”
My throat tightened. “I do love you.”
“No.” His laugh was bitter. “You’ve determined that saying those words produces optimal relationship outcomes.”
The memory hurts more than the bruises on my knees from the pavement.
The television drones in the background as I work, local news recycling the same stories. I’m only half-listening, hands moving automatically to hide more copies in the cloud, when the anchor’s tone shifts—that particular cadence that signals breaking news.
“This just in. FBI Special Agent James Morrison was found dead in his office at the Federal Building, an apparent suicide according to preliminary reports. Morrison, a twenty-year veteran of the Bureau, was discovered by cleaning staff at approximately 6:45 PM …”
The room tilts.
Morrison. Dead. “Suicide.”
The screen fills with his official photo—dress blues, American flag behind him, slight smile that never reached his eyes. Then crime scene footage—yellow tape, dark suits guarding the entrance, rain making everything look like a fever dream.
“Preliminary reports indicate a self-inflicted gunshot wound,” the anchor continues. “Morrison left no note.”
No note. Morrison would never kill himself without explaining why. The man documented everything.
First Victor. Now Morrison. Two bodies.
That’s not cleanup. It’s a message.
If they got to Morrison, then they have to know about me.
My fingers find the business card. Ten digits in black ink that suddenly feel like the only lifeline in an ocean of threats.
I dial before fear can paralyze me.
“Cerberus.” Male voice, calm and professional. No accent, no identifying characteristics.
“This is Talia Singh. James Morrison gave me this number.” My voice remains steady despite adrenaline flooding every cell. “He’s dead.”
Keys clicking in the background. “Status and location?”
“Chicago, North Side. Fifth-floor apartment.” I move to the window, keeping to the shadows. “Morrison was murdered because of what I gave him. I have evidence they’ll kill for.”
“Understood. Is your current location secure?”
“One entrance, fire escape outside the bedroom window.” My fingers trace the window lock. “Neighbors on both sides, family above, elderly couple below.”
“Lock your doors. Stay away from windows. Our operative is four hours out.”
“Four—” The word sticks in my throat.
“Minimum. Do you have a weapon?”
“Kitchen knives.”
“Find one. Keep your phone charged and with you. We’ll use it to track your position.”
“Track me?”
“In case you have to run. For now, stay put. The operative will text a code phrase when they arrive: ‘Statistical probability.’ You’ll respond with ‘Acceptable margins.’ Clear?”
“Clear.”
“Four hours. Stay alive.”
The line goes dead.
I pocket my phone. My fingers tremble despite my attempt at control. A kitchen knife—eight-inch chef’s knife, sharp enough to matter—fits in my hand like it belongs there. The weight is wrong. The balance unfamiliar. But the edge catches the light and promises violence if necessary.
Every creak in the building becomes footsteps on stairs. Every gust of wind sounds like the fire escape groaning under its weight. The clock on my phone counts down.
Four hours to outlast whoever sent that SUV. Four hours to survive what Morrison couldn’t.
My pulse hammers against my ribs, trying to escape the cage of my chest. The apartment feels too quiet, too exposed.
I move to the living room, putting my back against the wall where I can monitor both the front door and the hallway to the bedroom.
The knife rests across my lap. Nathan’s boxes provide cover if I need to duck behind them.
The cardboard smells faintly of his cologne—chemical sweetness mixed with something sharper underneath.
Four hours.
The city sounds filter through the windows—sirens, car horns, a dog barking. Normal sounds of life continuing while mine hangs by probability calculations and a stranger’s arrival time.
I grip the knife until my knuckles turn white. And I wait.