Chapter 26 —
POV: Lyra
The next morning didn't arrive softly.It broke open like glass.
I was already awake before the city bled light over the skyline, sprawled across the suite's chaise like a queen who'd decided the throne room was too plebeian. The TV murmured low news updates in the background, my mind dissecting every word.
NexaTech's board was good at playing the press. But even the best actors left fingerprints when they clapped.
And I was in the mood to dust for them.
Kieller emerged from the bedroom, shirt half-buttoned, coffee in hand, hair still slightly damp. He didn't look like a man who'd been up all night working leads, but then—Kieller never looked like anything he didn't want you to see.
"You're staring," he said without looking at me.
"I'm thinking," I replied, setting down my glass of water. "About how quickly we can make Gray disappear without causing an international incident."
"International incidents are your love language." He tossed a folder onto the coffee table. "But this one needs finesse."
I raised a brow. "You think I don't do finesse?"
"I think," he said, taking a slow sip, "you do a particular brand of finesse that usually involves metaphoric—or literal—explosions."
He wasn't wrong.
I opened the folder. Inside: a printout of Gray's communications over the last seventy-two hours. A neat list of encrypted pings, dummy accounts, and one physical meet scheduled for tonight at an underground lounge called The Atrium.
"That's our window," Kieller said.
I closed the folder. "No. That's my window."
His eyes narrowed. "Lyra—"
"You said it yourself: they're testing my stability." I stood, adjusting the silk belt of my robe like armor. "Let's show them just how stable I am when I'm hunting."
He watched me for a long moment, as if weighing whether the next twenty-four hours would require more bullets or more bandages.
By the time evening draped itself over the city, I was dressed for war in black satin and diamond cuffs—a look that said I could cut you in half and send the bill to your tailor.
The Atrium was the kind of place that pretended to be discreet while praying for scandal. Hidden beneath a florist shop, accessible only through a narrow spiral staircase lined with gold-veined marble. The scent of lilies died the moment we stepped through the steel door.
Kieller followed, two steps behind, playing the role of shadow and executioner.
We spotted Gray in seconds. He sat in a corner booth, slicked hair, nervous hands, a half-drunk martini sweating on the table. His eyes flicked to the door, then down again, missing us completely.
Pathetic.
I slid into the booth across from him without asking. "Gray."
He froze. "Lyra, I—"
"Don't waste breath." I poured his martini out onto the floor, slowly. "You've been busy."
His jaw flexed. "You don't understand—"
"No," I cut in, leaning forward, voice a velvet snare. "You don't understand. I decide when my name is currency. Not you. Not NexaTech. And certainly not whatever rats are still running Project Echo."
He blinked, eyes darting between me and Kieller. "It's bigger than you think—"
I smiled without humor. "I always think bigger, Gray. That's why I'm still breathing."
Kieller placed a small, black device on the table—sleek, matte, humming faintly. Gray's face drained of color.
"You know what this is?" Kieller asked.
Gray swallowed. "Signal scrubber."
"Mm," Kieller confirmed. "Blocks transmissions. Records everything."
I leaned back. "So let's talk, Gray. Off the record, and very much on the record."
He tried to play coy. Then Kieller shifted his stance, and the coy evaporated.
"It wasn't supposed to go public," Gray blurted. "The footage was meant as leverage. Someone—someone higher up—wanted to bait you into resurfacing."
I tilted my head. "And you were the fisherman?"
"I was the messenger."
I drummed my fingers against the table. "And where does the message go next?"
Gray hesitated. Then: "There's a transfer happening tomorrow. Funds. Big. From one of NexaTech's shell accounts to a safe harbor company in Zurich. That's where Project Echo's operational base is now."
Zurich.
The word was a knife. Cold, precise.
I stood. "You'll send me every detail. Account numbers, access points, the works."
"And if I don't?" he asked, voice small.
I smiled the way predators smile when they've already eaten. "You'll wish NexaTech got to you first."
Back in the car, Kieller said nothing for a while. Just the low thrum of the engine, the blur of city lights.
Finally: "You're playing a dangerous game."
"I am the dangerous game."
"You're also not bulletproof."
"Neither are they."
He shot me a sidelong glance. "You enjoyed that."
I smirked. "Maybe I enjoy reminding people why they should be afraid."
Silence. Then his voice, quieter: "They're afraid, Lyra. But I think you're afraid, too."
I looked out the window. "Fear isn't the enemy. Complacency is."
He didn't push. He never did when the truth was too close to the bone.
Later, back at the suite, I poured two glasses of wine without asking if he wanted one. He took it anyway.
We stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, Zurich glowing in my mind's eye like a lit match over gasoline.
"Tomorrow," Kieller said, "we start pulling Zurich apart."
I nodded, swirling the wine. "And if they think they can put me back in their system…"
"They're in for a surprise," he finished.
Our eyes met in the glass reflection—not quite touching, not quite apart.
Some wars were fought with armies.Ours was fought with silence, precision, and just enough venom to taste.
And as far as I was concerned… we were only getting started.