Page 115 of Ruin
I walk out, close the door and stand in the corridor with the paper in my hand and my heart slamming against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
I did that.
I sat across from a frightened man and took him apart with photographs and promises.
I used every skill my parents taught me, every instinct my education sharpened, and I turned them into instruments of something my mother would weep to see.
My reflection stares back at me from the dark glass of the corridor wall.
Silk blouse. Diamond collar.
A face that looks calm and composed and nothing like the girl who used to cry in Emilia's guest room.
I stare at that woman in the glass.
She doesn't flinch and neither do I.
Cassius is leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed.
He's been there the whole time, not behind the glass but right here, close enough to hear every word through the door.
His expression is something I haven't seen before.
Not pride, exactly. Not surprise. Something quieter than both.
The look of a man watching something he thought he understood reveal a dimension he didn't account for.
He doesn't saygreat job. Doesn't sayI'm impressed. Doesn't say anything for a long moment. "The sister. You meant that? You want her relocated?"
"I gave him my word."
"Then it's done." He pushes off the wall and holds my gaze for a beat that lasts longer than it should. "Anya Volkova will be in Toronto by Friday."
That's it. That's all he says.
But the way he says her name tells me more than a compliment ever could.
The staging areais a storage room off the east corridor.
Someone has cleared the shelves and laid out the tactical gear in neat rows: vests, comms equipment, holsters, blades.
It looks like a very organized person's idea of going to war.
I pick up the vest.
It's heavier than I expected, the ballistic panels stiff against my fingers, and for a moment the reality of what we're about to do lands on me with a weight that makes my arms weak.
We're going to a building full of armed men to extract my best friend, and people are going to get hurt, and some of them might die, and I'm strapping a knife to my thigh like that's something a person just does on a Tuesday afternoon.
I put on the vest, tighten the straps and the weight settles on my shoulders and after a moment it stops feeling heavy and starts feeling like armor.
I strap the knife to my right thigh, the sheath snug against the muscle, and the blade sits there with a familiarity that should alarm me but instead feels like the last piece of something clicking into place.
The door opens behind me.
I don't turn around.
I know who it is by the footsteps, by the weight of the silence he carries, by the way the air in the room changes when he enters it.
