Chapter 12 – Damon （February 14）
The soft glow from my computer monitor and backlit keyboard is the only light in the room. Outside, San Francisco is still asleep, shrouded in a pre-dawn fog that presses against the windows like a wet blanket.
I take a sip of cold coffee, my eyes scanning the scrolling lines of code one last time.
The bypass script is clean. The camera loops are queued.
The comms units have been checked, charged, and are encrypted with a key that would take a hacker days to crack.
Everything is perfect. Logically, statistically, we are ready but my gut is churning.
I glance at the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Andre is in the guest room, probably sleeping with one eye open and a gun under his pillow. Marcus is on the couch behind me, snoring softly, one arm dangling off the edge, twitching occasionally like he’s dreaming of running a hustle.
And Demi…
I push away from the table, the chair scraping softly against the hardwood.
I can’t hear her, but I can feel her. It’s like a disruption in the force field of the house.
I walk down the hall to the master bedroom.
The door is cracked open a few inches. I push it gently, peering inside and find the bed empty.
The sheets are tangled, kicked off in what looks like a restless fit.
I find her in the attached bathroom. She’s sitting on the closed toilet lid, wrapped in a fluffy white robe that swallows her small frame.
Her red hair is rumpled and cute, and her face is pale, devoid of makeup.
She’s staring at the pile of clothes on the counter, the black slacks, the stiff blouse, the orthopedic shoes, like they’re a hazmat suit she has to step into.
Skipper is sitting at her feet, resting her chin on her knee, looking up with big, worried eyes.
I lean against the doorframe. "Happy Valentine’s Day."
Demi jumps, her head snapping up. When she sees it’s me, the tension bleeds out of her shoulders, but the fear in her eyes remains.
"Is it?" she asks, her voice raspy from sleep. "Feels more like D-Day."
"Technically, D-Day was June 6th," I say, stepping into the room. "And the Allies won."
She manages a weak smile. "You and your facts."
"Facts are comforting," I say, kneeling in front of her. I nudge Skipper over gently so I can take her place between Demi’s knees.
I rest my hands on her thighs, rubbing my thumbs over the soft fabric of the robe.
"Fact: The plan is solid. Fact: You are the best operator I’ve ever seen.
Fact: We are not going to let anything happen to you. "
She sighs, covering my hands with hers. Her fingers are ice cold. "I know. It’s just… putting Martha back on. It feels like I’m erasing myself. Like I’m going back to being invisible."
"You’re never invisible to us," I promise. "Even under the wig. Even behind the glasses. We see you, Demi."
I stand up, pulling her with me. "Come on. I’ll help you armor up."
She lets the robe drop. She’s wearing simple cotton underwear, nothing like the lacy things she wore for us in the past, but the sight of her skin still makes my breath hitch. I force my brain to stay in 'support mode' and not 'ravage mode.'
I pick up the restrictive body shaper she wears to flatten her curves for the Martha persona. It’s a hideous beige thing.
"This looks like a torture device," I mutter.
"It is," she says, turning around and stepping into it. "It reminds me to keep my posture bad. Martha hunches."
I help her pull it up, smoothing the thick elastic over her hips and waist. My hands linger on her skin, tracing the warmth before the fabric covers it. I lean down, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck.
"I hate covering you up," I whisper against her skin. "I want the world to see this."
She shivers, leaning back against me for a second. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow I can be me again."
"Tomorrow," I agree.
I hand her the blouse. She buttons it up to her chin, her movements mechanical.
I hand her the slacks. She steps into them.
With every piece of clothing, the vibrant, fiery woman I’m falling for disappears a little more, replaced by the drab, forgettable drone.
It’s a terrifying transformation. It speaks to how much pain she’s been carrying, that she learned to hide herself so effectively.
"Sit," I say, pointing to the vanity stool.
She sits. I pick up the wig cap and the brown wig.
"Allow me."
I gather her red hair, twisting it carefully against her scalp. I’m gentle, mindful of not pulling too hard. I pin it in place, my fingers brushing her temples. She closes her eyes, leaning into my touch.
"You have good hands," she murmurs.
"Surgeon’s hands," I joke lightly. "Or safe-cracker’s hands. Take your pick."
I slide the wig over her head, adjusting the hairline until it looks natural or as natural as a cheap synthetic wig can look. I tuck the stray red strands away. She opens her eyes and looks in the mirror. Martha stares back. Dull, lifeless and forgettable.
She reaches for the thick glasses, but I intercept her hand.
"Not yet," I say.
I cup her face, turning her away from the mirror and toward me. I look past the wig, straight into those blue-green eyes that have haunted my dreams for months.
"You are going to walk in there," I tell her, my voice steady and low.
"You are going to check coats. You are going to move trays.
You are going to be invisible. But the moment you step into that executive wing, you are a queen taking back her kingdom.
Do not let Thorne make you feel small. You are the giant in that room. "
Her chin trembles. "I’m scared, Marcus."
"Good," I say. "Fear keeps you sharp. Use it but don't let it drive. You drive."
I lean in and kiss her. It’s not a hungry kiss, not a demanding one.
It’s a seal, a promise. I pour every ounce of my confidence, every bit of my heart into it, trying to fill her up so she has reserves to draw on when she’s alone in the lion’s den.
She kisses me back desperately, her hands clutching the lapels of my jacket, holding on for dear life but when we break apart, her eyes are clear.
The Martha mask is still there, but the fire is back behind it.
"Okay," she breathes. "Okay, I need something from you."
“Anything.”
She must see in my eyes that I mean it because hers go soft for a split second before they get serious again.
"There’s a good chance when this sets off, shit’s going to go sideways.
I need you to be ready to pivot. Thorne’s going down one way or another so the most important thing is that no matter what happens, she gets exposed to the world.
They need to know what she’s done, what she’s doing so there won’t be any escape for her.
I need you to be ready to make sure that happens… no matter what, okay?”
I narrow my eyes at her as a frown pulls my lips down.
It almost sounds like she’s willing to sacrifice herself to make that happen and she’s asking me to go along with that.
I’m not going to fight with her about this right before she leaves and pull her focus away from what she needs to do so I just tilt my head down in a slight agreement.
I’ll make my own judgement on how to proceed when we’re in it.
With a nod and soft smile she turns away, puts the brown contact lenses in and then slides on the glasses. The transformation is complete.
"Let’s go," she says briskly. "I have a bus to catch."
The living room is awake now. Andre is drinking coffee, fully dressed in his bartender uniform ready to catch the staff bus the servers will use to get to the estate.
Marcus is pacing, looking sharp in the expensive suit he’ll wear for his "wealthy investor" cover as he heads to the Auberge maison we booked before changing again into a tux and going to the party.
They both stop when Demi walks in. Or, rather, when Martha walks in.
Marcus winces. "God, I hate that outfit. It’s a crime against fashion and humanity."
"That’s the point," she says, her voice flattening into Martha’s timid cadence.
Andre walks over, handing her a travel mug. "Tea, with honey. For the nerves."
"Thanks," she tells him with a cocky wink and grin. “No nerves here. I’m ready to burn this bitch.”
I pick up Skipper, who is whining at Demi’s feet. "I’ve got her. She’s going to be my co-pilot. We’ll watch the feeds together."
Demi scratches the dog’s head before leaning down and dropping a kiss between her ears. "Be good, Sheriff. Don't eat the comms equipment."
She shoulders her ugly canvas bag. "I guess this is it."
"We’re right behind you," Andre reminds her. "Check your comms when you get on the bus. One tap for active."
"I know the drill, Daddy," she says, a flash of Blue’s sass breaking through the Martha facade for just a second.
Marcus grins. "Give 'em hell, sweetheart."
She nods, takes a deep breath, and walks out the door. We watch her go, the silence in the room heavy and instant.
"I hate this part," Marcus groans, dropping the grin. "The waiting."
"We aren't waiting," I tell him, moving back to my computer to start unhooking everything to transfer to the vehicle. "We’re preparing. We need to get the vehicles set up and moved. Andre needs to go take his place with the catering staff. Marcus, grab Skip’s bed and food. We move in thirty."
The game is on. And this time, we’re playing for keeps.