Chapter 66
[ 1,018 words ]
Katia’s POV
Then I picked it up again and pulled up Sam’s number.
She answered on the second ring, which meant she hadn’t been sleeping either.
“I saw the drone feed,” she said before I could speak. “I’ve already moved the bike to the third location. New plates. The RFID is wiped. You’re clean, and Katia, you evidence that it was very compromising, but I dealt with it p>
I exhaled, knowing exactly what I left behind. “You’re extraordinary p>
“I know. Also, you need a new hobby p>
“Racing is not a hobby p>
“Racing his drones through the city at midnight absolutely is,” I heard her moving around keys, a drawer, and the sound of a laptop opening. “His text, Katia. He sent it from a personal number p>
“I know p>
“That’s not a WEG communication. That’s him, personally p>
“I know that too, Sam p>
A took a pause. “What did you text back p>
“Goodnight p>
She was quiet for three seconds. Which, for Sam, was the equivalent of a standing ovation. “You said goodnight p>
“I did p>
“To the man who just deployed a city-wide drone grid to catch you p>
“Correct p>
She took another pause. “And you’re not scared p>
I looked at the city outside Brooklyn at 4 AM. It looked exactly like Brooklyn at any other hour, all glass and indifference, never quite dark, never quite honest.
“Not scared,” I said. “Something else p>
“Katia p>
“I know p>
“He’s going to figure it out p>
“He’s already figuring it out.” I moved to the kitchen counter and started the coffee because it was 4 AM, and I was absolutely not going back to sleep. “He just doesn’t have proof. He has a pattern and a heat signature and the fact that I sent him ’goodnight’ instead of ’I don’t know what you’re talking about p>
“That was a tactical error p>
“It was honest p>
“Honesty is a tactical error, Katia; we’ve talked about this.” But her voice had shifted—still sharp, but underneath it was something careful. She knew what honesty with Julian meant better than I was ready to say out loud. “What time is your meeting p>
“Nine. He said don’t be late p>
“So you’re going at 9:01 p>
“Obviously p>
The coffee started. I watched it drip and thought about a man I’d left standing in the centre of his glass empire at 3 AM, tie in his hand, eyes following me to the elevator. I thought about the way he’d touched my hair. Just the one strand, tucked behind my ear like it was the most careful thing he’d ever done with his hands. I thought about how I’d almost reached for him before the desk stopped me.
I stopped thinking about it.
“Sam, the bike’s clean. The grid’s down. He has a text message that proves nothing and a hunch that proves even less.” I poured coffee I didn’t need yet. “We show up at 9:01 like professionals, and we do our jobs p>
“And if he asks directly p>
“He won’t ask directly. Not yet. He’ll circle.” I wrapped both hands around the mug. “Julian Windsor doesn’t ask directly until he already has the answer p>
Sam made a sound that was not quite agreement but also wasn’t an argument. “I’ll be at the office by eight. You should sleep p>
“I’m fine p>
“You haven’t slept p>
“I’ll sleep when Nikolai Voss is in prison,” I said, and then realised I’d said that to the wrong person entirely and that name meant nothing to Sam yet and would require a very long conversation I did not have the bandwidth for at 4 AM.
“Who,” said Sam, “is Nikolai Voss p>
“Nobody. Go back to sleep p>
“Katia p>
“I’ll explain later. Go. Sleep. I love you p>
I hung up before she could ask again.
The city blinked back at me through the glass. I drank my coffee standing up because sitting felt too much like settling, and I had six hours until I needed to be in a boardroom looking like I hadn’t spent the night outrunning billionaire drones on a Ducati while wearing seventeen thousand pounds’ worth of carbon fibre.
Aiden appeared in the kitchen doorway at 4:43 AM in his dinosaur pyjamas, eyes barely open, hair magnificent.
“Why are you up?” he asked, voice still thick with sleep.
“Couldn’t sleep. Why are you up, champ p>
“I smelled coffee,” he said, climbing onto the kitchen stool with the ease of someone who had been doing it since he could walk. “You only make coffee in the middle of the night when something has happened p>
I looked at my six-year-old son.
“Nothing happened,” I said. “Go back to bed p>
He put his chin in his hand and looked at me with those eyes, dark, direct, taking in more than they let on.
“You’re doing the knuckle thing,” he said.
I looked down. I’d been pressing my thumb into the knuckle of my index finger without realising. The habit I’d developed somewhere between running a company and raising a child alone, a pressure point, something to hold onto when everything else was moving too fast.
I dropped my hand.
“Bed,” I said. “Now p>
He hopped off the stool with the boneless grace of a small child and shuffled back toward his room. At the door he stopped and looked back.
“9:01,” he said.
I stared at him. “What p>
“Sam always says you go one minute late on purpose. So they know you’re not scared.” He yawned enormously. “Go one minute late, Mum.” He disappeared down the hall.
I stood in my kitchen at 4:43 in the morning with a coffee mug in my hand and the city outside and a text on my phone that said I’ll see you in the morning, Katia and my six-year-old son had just given me the same tactical advice as my chief of security.
I thought about a man asleep on a sofa in his office, jacket off, tie on the table, the ice king briefly, improbably, human.
“9:01,” I said quietly to the empty kitchen.
Then I went to make Aiden’s lunch for school, because the world kept moving whether you were ready for it or not.
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