Page 115 of Hunted

“The Academy-assigned wax-pot assassin,” I sniped.

Tap, tap, tap. “Do you trust your handlers’ judgement over your own?”

Mostly. “Yes, Your Ladyship.”

“It’s Doctor,” she growled. “Do you believe the mission would have been a success without their intervention?”

“Yes. But then I’d also be dead, so.” I shrugged. “You win some, you lose some.”

“The Academy never loses,” she deadpanned. “Have you ever concealed information from your handlers?”

Yes. “No, Your Holiness.”

“Would you ever consider it?”

“If Blackwing required me to do so—honestly, what even are these questions, Sara?”

I’d noticed her framed degree on the wall about five seconds prior and unleashed said knowledge almost immediately—and to great effect.

“It’s Doctor Calper to you, Swallow Sinclair.” Her voice lowered, the inflection finally tainted with some sort of emotion. “If one of your handlers operated outside of Academy protocols, what would you do?”

“Report them, obviously.”

Lie. Lie, lie, liar. I’d go to the grave for any of them.

“Do you believe any are emotionally compromised, given their self-insertion into your mission?”

“Of course not. Do you, Mistress?”

Her already thin lips flattened.

I decided to elaborate and see where that got me. “I believe they protected an Academy asset and prevented its losing millions of dollars worth of specialised education.” I had no idea how much it actually cost to train us, but I took a wild stab in the dark. Sounded good.

“Have any of your handlers touched you outside operational necessity?”

Obscenely. Repeatedly. Profoundly.

“No, Sir.”

Tap, tap. TAP.

“And if ordered by Blackwing to take out one of your handlers, would you do it? Answer immediately.”

“Yes.”

No. Gods, no. Not ever.

Dr. Sara Calper’s interrogation was shrilly interrupted by the ringing of her phone. And thank fuck, too, because I felt like I’d been sprinting the whole way through it. Answering her rapid-fire, ever-evolving questions left me reeling, and I was grateful for the reprieve.

She stood abruptly, hanging up the phone.

“You are not yet dismissed, but Commander Varco requires me immediately.”

She didn’t wait for a response before clacking her little kitten heels out the door—and I didn’t wait until I couldn’t hear them any more to dash over to her computer and find out exactly what that bitch was writing about me.

I barely suppressed a groan when I rounded her desk, clocking that she’d at least been cautious enough to lock her screen with an assassin on her sofa. But Van had prepped me precisely for this moment, and I sent up a silent thanks to the tech gods for it.

Twenty seconds later—and an incredibly unoriginal password of SCalper1—and I was in.