25. Emma
EMMA
Marcus Cole’s name stares back at me from Rurik’s phone screen, black text against white background that might as well be a confession written in blood.
The memory surfaces with uncomfortable clarity.
Cole acting nervous during the final briefing, his hands fidgeting with his pen while Hayes outlined the operation timeline.
The way he avoided eye contact when I asked him to confirm the communications protocols.
How he left the room quickly once the meeting ended, mumbling something about needing to check server logs.
I thought he was just anxious. Cole always got twitchy before major operations, his social awkwardness amplified by pressure. But now those small details take on new weight, reshaping themselves into something darker.
I remember the coffee runs we’d take together on slow afternoons, Cole complaining about his caseload while I listened.
He’d always order the same thing—black coffee, no sugar—and we’d sit in the break room talking about nothing important.
He made me laugh once by doing a terrible impression of Langford’s stern voice during a briefing.
That was maybe three months ago, before everything started falling apart.
There was also the lunch we grabbed near the office, some mediocre sandwich place Cole insisted had decent pastrami.
He’d been quieter than usual that day, pushing food around his plate.
When I asked if he was okay, he’d hesitated before admitting he was in over his head with some gambling debts.
Nothing serious, he’d said, just some bad luck at the poker tables.
He’d laughed it off, but I’d seen the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers drummed against the table in an anxious rhythm.
“I’ll get it sorted,” he’d told me, forcing a smile. “Just need a good week.”
I’d believed him then. I’d thought it was just a rough patch, the kind of thing that happens to people. I’d even offered to grab lunch again soon, to check in on him. He’d seemed grateful for that, genuinely relieved that someone cared enough to ask.
Now I wonder if that gratitude was real or if he was already planning to sell me out by then.
“He sold me out,” I say quietly, the words tasting bitter. “Cole needed money for his gambling debts and someone offered him enough to hand over my identity.”
Rurik sets the phone down carefully, his pale blue eyes studying my face. “It’s possible.”
“It’s more than possible.” I straighten, crossing my arms over my chest. “The timeline fits. The access logs prove he was in the system when he shouldn’t have been. And he had motive. Gambling debts makes people desperate.”
Eduard moves to stand beside me, his gray eyes thoughtful as he reviews the information again. “The pattern is damning.”
“Exactly.” Relief floods through me, cold and certain. If Cole sold the information, then the betrayal was simple. Greed, not something deeper. Not someone I trusted more than a colleague I barely knew outside of work.
Not Langford.
The thought surfaces before I can stop it, and I shove it down immediately.
I don’t want to consider that possibility.
Can’t consider it. Langford has been part of my life since I was sixteen.
He was there when my parents were murdered.
He encouraged me to join the Bureau. He approved this operation.
But he also had the authority to shut down the investigation into my disappearance. He could have declared me presumed dead without raising flags.
I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. Cole makes sense. Cole fits the evidence.
Before I can say anything else, shouting erupts from somewhere outside. The sound cuts through the quiet study, sharp and urgent.
One of the guards rushes into the study, his expression urgent. Eduard and Artur move toward him immediately, and I follow automatically, my pulse quickening.
The guard reports something I can’t quite hear, his voice low and rapid. Eduard’s jaw tightens, and he nods once. “Handle it. I want a full report when we’re done here.”
The guard leaves as quickly as he arrived, and the three of us return to the desk. Whatever the disturbance was, Eduard has already delegated it. His focus shifts back to the investigation without hesitation.
Back at the desk, Rurik’s tech contact has sent additional information about Cole’s financial activity.
I lean over the laptop, scanning through bank records that show gambling debt growing rapidly over the past few months.
Online betting sites. High-stakes poker games.
Losses that accumulated faster than his salary could cover.
And then, buried in the transactions, several unexplained deposits. Not large enough to draw immediate attention but significant. Five thousand here. Eight thousand there. The timing coincides with the weeks leading up to my undercover operation.
“He was being paid,” I say quietly. “Someone was feeding him money in exchange for information.”
Eduard moves to stand beside me, his shoulder brushing mine as he studies the screen. Then he points to another detail I missed. A system log entry dated the day after I disappeared. “Look at this.”
I follow his finger to a line of code that shows Cole attempting to delete a record connected to my undercover identity. The action failed because the system automatically backed up access logs, but the attempt is there. Documented and damning.
“He panicked,” I say, my voice tight. “He realized what he’d done and tried to cover his tracks.”
Artur leans against the desk, his dark eyes sharp. “Or someone told him to clean up the evidence.”
Before I can respond, Artur’s phone vibrates. He pulls it out, glancing at the screen, and his expression shifts. “Update from my contact inside federal law enforcement.”
“What is it?” Rurik asks.
Artur reads quickly, his jaw tightening. “Marcus Cole has been arrested. Internally, by the Bureau.”
My pulse spikes. “When?”
“Two days ago.” Artur looks up, meeting my gaze. “The charge is embezzlement and small-scale misuse of internal systems.”
I frown immediately. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” Rurik says quietly. “It doesn’t.”
Eduard crosses his arms, his expression thoughtful. “If Cole sold out a federal agent to an international trafficking network, the Bureau wouldn’t quietly arrest him for a financial violation.”
The logic hits me like cold water. He’s right. Someone responsible for that level of betrayal wouldn’t face minor charges. They’d either vanish completely or be prosecuted for something far more serious, like treason, conspiracy, or accessory to kidnapping.
Not embezzlement.
“They’re protecting someone,” I say slowly, the realization settling in my chest like a weight. “Cole is a scapegoat. They arrested him for something small to make it look like they’re handling the problem, but the real mole is still protected.”
Rurik nods once. “That’s my assessment.”
I sink into the chair behind the desk, my hands shaking slightly. If Cole isn’t the real traitor, then someone higher up orchestrated this. Someone with enough authority to manipulate investigations, declare agents dead, and bury evidence.
Someone like Langford.
The thought makes my stomach twist. I don’t want it to be true. I can’t let it be true. But the pieces are starting to fit together in ways I can’t ignore.
Hours pass as we continue reviewing the information.
Rurik’s contacts dig deeper into Cole’s arrest, confirming that the charges are deliberately minor.
Eduard cross-references the timeline with known trafficking operations, looking for connections we might have missed.
Artur monitors communications from his Baltic network, searching for any mention of federal leaks or compromised agents.
I sit quietly as I work, my mind spinning through scenarios. If Langford is involved, how deep does it go? Was he working with the auction network from the beginning? Did he know about Krystal’s disappearance? Did he approve my operation, knowing I’d be captured?
The questions pile up faster than I can process them.
By the time evening settles over the estate, my head is pounding and my eyes burn from staring at screens. Rurik orders food brought to the study and we eat in relative silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
Then Artur’s phone vibrates again.
He picks it up, glancing at the screen, and goes very still. His dark eyes narrow as he reads, his expression shifting from curiosity to something harder.
“What is it?” Eduard asks.
Artur doesn’t answer immediately. He reads the message twice, his jaw tightening. Then he looks up, his gaze locking onto mine.
“Encrypted message from one of my Baltic contacts,” he says quietly. “There’s a note and a photograph.”
My pulse quickens. “What does it say?”
Artur’s voice is flat as he reads aloud. “Tell Emma Moore I would like to meet her.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and dangerous.
“Show me the photograph,” I demand, already moving toward him.
He turns the phone so I can see the screen.
The image is clear this time. Not blurry like the last one. A woman stands in what looks like an elegant hotel lobby, her honey-blonde hair falling straight down her back. She’s wearing a fitted dress, her posture perfect, her expression calm.
It’s Krystal.
And she’s looking directly at the camera.