Chapter 7 #6
“I have an offer,” Alan said. He looked at York.
“I’ll stop them from killing the president’s daughter.
I’ll go back in, feed you real-time intelligence, sabotage the operation from inside.
But first—” His voice threatened to break.
He forced it steady. “First, you find my wife and daughter. You bring them somewhere safe. And you let me see them. Five minutes. That’s all.
Five minutes to look Timea in the eye and tell her I’m alive.
To see my daughter. To know they’re real and not just another manipulation. ”
“And if we do that?” York asked. “If we let you see them first, what’s your guarantee you’ll follow through?”
Alan held his gaze. “You have my heart in your hands. You know that. I know that. You put Timea and Fia in protective custody. If I betray you, I lose them forever. Either the Petrovs kill them, or you disappear them into witness protection where I’ll never find them. So here’s the truth—”
He took a step closer. Close enough to read York’s eyes. The calculation. The ice.
“You can trust me because I have nothing left to lose except them. And I won’t do anything that puts them at risk. I’ll burn Tomas. I’ll burn the Petrovs. I’ll burn my own reputation. But I won’t—I can’t—risk my family. Not again.”
York studied him. Long enough that Alan heard his own heartbeat.
“Scarlett,” York said finally. Not looking away from Alan. “You here?”
A woman appeared in the doorway. Mid-thirties, strawberry blonde hair pulled back, wearing tactical pants and a black T-shirt. She carried a small medical kit.
Alan recognized her from surveillance photos. Scarlett Hathaway. North’s teammate. Engaged to Ford Marshall.
“Yeah?” Her voice was wary.
“I need you to place a tracker. Subcutaneous. GPS with biometric monitoring.”
She looked at Alan. Back at York. “You’re serious.”
“Very.”
“Where?”
“Upper arm. Left side.”
“Give me a minute.” She disappeared.
Alan stared at York. But if this was the only way…
She reappeared with a black box, set down the kit, and started unpacking. Sterilization wipes. Local anesthetic. A small device that looked like a grain of rice in sealed packaging.
“This is going to hurt,” she said, not looking at him. “Anesthetic will help but it’s not a hundred percent.”
Alan said nothing.
She glanced up then. Her eyes were hard. “You tried to blow up my entire wedding party.”
He raised an eyebrow. Um…
“What?” Scarlett said as she stood up. “You’ve been the puppet master behind half the attacks we’ve been chasing. How many people have died because of you?”
And she was the one who was going to inject him?
“So if you’re lying,” Scarlett continued, “if you’re planning to run or betray or put any of my people at risk, I want you to know something.”
She leaned closer.
“I will find you myself. And I’ll make sure you don’t get the mercy of a quick death.”
Her voice was pleasant. Almost conversational.
Alan’s jaw tightened.
“Scarlett,” Ham said quietly.
She straightened. “Just making sure we’re clear.” She ripped open an alcohol wipe. “Shirt off. Left arm extended.”
Alan worked off his T-shirt. The borrowed cargo pants hung loose on his hips. He’d lost weight over the past months. Stress. Not eating. Running.
He extended his left arm.
Scarlett cleaned the skin on his upper arm. Found the right spot. “Lidocaine first.” A quick sting, then spreading numbness. “Now saline, to raise the skin.”
She injected. A small bubble formed under his skin.
“Now the tracker.”
This needle was thicker. Alan felt it pierce the bubble. Push the device under his skin. His arm burned.
Scarlett withdrew the needle. Applied pressure. Taped a small bandage over the site.
“Done.” She packed her kit. “It’s live. GPS accurate to three meters. Biometric monitoring shows heart rate, body temp, stress markers. And”—she met his eyes—“it’s tamper-proof. You try to cut it out, it sends an alert. You try to disable it, it sends an alert. You die, it sends an alert.”
“Understood.”
She left without another word.
York pulled out his phone. Tapped the screen. Turned it so Alan could see.
A map. A blinking dot. Alan’s location.
“I can track you anywhere,” York said. “Anywhere in the world. I’ll know where you are, and I’ll know if your heart rate spikes because you’re lying or fighting or dying.”
“Mm-hmm.”
York pocketed the phone. “Don’t make me regret this.”
The words hung in the air.
“When do I see them?” Alan’s voice came out quieter than he wanted.
“After the mission is over,” York said evenly.
“That wasn’t—”
“That’s the deal.”
Right.
“Right now, you go back in. Make contact with Smirnov. Feed us everything.”
“And if he doesn’t buy it?”
“Then you die and we find another way.” York’s voice was flat. Matter-of-fact.
Alan nodded slowly. “Fair enough.”
“Get some sleep.” York gestured to the broken door. “We’ll post guards. Don’t try anything else stupid.”
He left. The others followed. Ham paused in the doorway.
“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “York keeps his promises. You’ll see your family.” Ham’s expression was unreadable. “I guess we’re about to see if you’re the man you used to be, or the man you chose to turn into.”
Alan stood alone in the room. The AC kicked back on. The fan continued its creaking rotation overhead.
He looked down at his left arm. The bandage was white and neat. Beneath it, the tracker sat under his skin like a promise—or a threat.
Maybe both.