Page 76 of Shadow Burn

She pulled the flashlight Jasper had given her from her bag and flicked it on. A light mist dampened her face, her hair, her bag, as she stepped out, took a breath, and marched to the gate.

“Ms. Townsend,” the man said, holding out a gloved hand. “The paper.”

The gate stood between them, its vertical bars slick and black beneath the security lights. The camera above the door stayed dark, a dead glass eye aimed at nothing. On the other side of the compound, the distraction at the main gate continued. Distant voices rose and faded through the mist, too far away to help her.

Her light caught the lines in the man’s face. It wasn’t her attacker. He was well into his sixties, his eyes expressionless. “You’re…” Her voice faltered but her memory fired. “You’re the driver.” Except Katherine knew better now. “But you’re more than that, aren’t you? You’re Cinder.”

“The paper,” he repeated. His voice was quiet, almost bored. It made the hairs on the back of her neck lift. “That name doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

“It meant enough for you to threaten my sister and nieces.”

“Then don’t waste time.”

Katherine should have handed it over. That was why she’d come. That was why she’d left her phone in her room, lied to Sebastian, and walked toward the east service gate while every instinct screamed for Jasper. The threat had done exactly what it was designed to do.

But the page had changed everything.

The original wasn’t just paper. It was proof. The flame watermark. Vance’s cramped handler acknowledgment. Upton’s authorization code embedded in the routing line. The cipher that turned dull archive language into a non-attributable kill channel.

Cinder didn’t only want the page because of what it said. He wanted it because of what it was. “You’ve been doing unsanctioned work for years, haven’t you?” she asked.

The stillness in him sharpened. His gaze flicked once to her bag, then back to her face. “You’re an archivist, Ms. Townsend. Don’t mistake recognition for understanding.”

“I understand enough. Flame mark means final-action authority. Handler-retention original. Copy invalid without signature chain.” She pulled the archival sleeve from the notebook in her bag, letting him see the edge of the page but not take it. “Vance’s signature gave you provenance. Upton’s code gave you authorization. Caldwell gave you a name to hide behind.”

His mouth flattened.

Katherine leaned into it because fear was still inside her, but anger had finally found room beside it. “How long did you think it would stay buried? What have you been doing for them? For the Agency? Wet work through Caldwell’s group under a false identity? Something else equally damning?”

“Careful.”

“Why? Because I’m right?”

“Because you’re alive because I’ve allowed it.”

A cold wave moved through her, but she didn’t step back. If she stepped back, she’d lose the fragile ground she’d gained.

“Vance knew,” she said. “He tried to leave a record.”

“Vance was weak.”

“He was your handler.”

“I’m surrounded by idiots who either don’t have the guts to do what needs to be done themselves or are too hotheaded to do assignments without drawing attention.”

Katherine’s breath caught. She’d guessed from the signature. From the position of the mark. From the way Vance’s note had been tucked into the collection like a confession he hadn’t been allowed to make aloud.

But Cinder’s reaction was confirmation, silent and ugly. “Vance didn’t want to be involved,” she said.

“He didn’t get to choose.”

“Upton forced him.”

Cinder smiled then, a small, joyless curve that made him look less like an elderly driver and more like the weapon he’d always been. “Upton understood necessity. Vance understood paperwork.”

“Vance had a conscience. You killed him, didn’t you? Why? Was he going to out you and Upton?”

“Conscience is what men invent after the work is done.”