Nora Blake became one with the shadows clinging to the manor's stone façade. The only sound was the whisper of the night wind and the frantic beat of her own heart.
"Nora, we're leaving. Now." Mark's voice was a tight wire of panic in her earpiece. "His security system is everywhere. It's a trap."
"Two minutes," she breathed back, the words barely audible. The Carlos files were here. She could feel it.Her light was a single, disciplined beam cutting through the darkness of the study.
It swept across polished mahogany, then caught on an anomaly: a rough, hand-carved police badge, a child's clumsy craft, displayed like a relic in a case of polished rosewood. The dissonance made her pause for a single, precious second.
The computer yielded in twenty-seven seconds. Too easy. The screen glowed, revealing the damning header: Mexico - Carlos.
Her micro camera whirred softly, capturing page after page.Silence.
Then, the whisper of a hidden door sliding open.She turned, gun already clearing its holster. Too late!
Four points of cold red light painted a perfect constellation over her heart.
"Evening, little thief." The voice was like dark velvet, coming from the doorway.
He stepped into a sliver of moonlight. Alexander Archer. He wasn't supposed to be here. He was a ghost made flesh, impeccably dressed, his eyes holding a chilling, knowing amusement. He looked exactly like the man who owned the world because, in the shadows, he very nearly did.
Her weapon felt suddenly small. "Stay back," she warned, voice steeled.
He didn't even glance at the gun. "I wouldn't. Unless you want to hear what happens to your man Mark when he stops being useful."
Ice flooded her veins.
He moved then—a blur of controlled motion. Her gun was gone, his hand locked around her arm, pulling her into the space of his heat. He stilled, his gaze sharpening on her face as if seeing a ghost. Recognition. Shock.
"Your name," he demanded, the words soft and lethal. "The real one."
She strained against an impossible strength. "Go to hell."
He tilted his head, a predator's gesture. A whisper to his cuff. "Encourage our guest outside."
A choked cry exploded in her ear. Mark.
"Nora Blake!" The name tore from her. "It's Nora Blake."
"Nora." He tasted the name. "Lovely." His thumb brushed a faint, almost imperceptible line across her jaw. "Now. Let's discuss the trouble you've caused. You've given me a fright."
The words, so absurdly genteel from a man like him, should have been mocking. But in that moment, a shard of memory—impossible and sharp—pierced through the fear.
A flicker of a forgotten park, a wooden badge pressed into a small, grubby hand. The sensation vanished as quickly as it came, drowned by the immediate, terrifying present.