Page 18 of Beckoning Liam

The air was thick with an electric charge of urgency as Liam and Becks navigated the maze of corridors of the conference center, their steps quiet but swift. The shadows seemed to clutch at them, secrets that only added weight to their mission. Beck'smind worked in overdrive, piecing together languages and codes while Liam moved with a predator’s focus, every sense attuned to the undercurrents of danger.

"Here," Becks said quietly, halting before a nondescript door. Her eyes widened as they reflected a storm of cognition and concern. "This is the place they’re messaging about."

"Stay behind me," Liam instructed, his voice low but commanding, the dominant edge blending seamlessly with protective instinct. He reached for the door, every muscle coiled, ready to strike or defend.

The room beyond was shrouded in darkness. As Liam flicked on the pen flashlight he’d had in his jacket pocket, he swung it back and forth, illuminating an office turned upside down—papers scattered, furniture overturned. It was clear they had stumbled upon the nerve center of those at the conference involved in the conspiracy.

"Someone did not want their secrets uncovered," Becks noted, her tone laced with a mix of fear and fascination.

"Or someone already got what they came for," Liam countered, surveying the chaos with a critical eye. He moved through the room, examining every clue with meticulous precision.

Becks followed suit, her fingers brushing against the papers, translating bits and fragments of information. She was the submissive to his dominant, but as was so often misunderstood, they were equals, both within the lifestyle and outside of it.

"Look at this," she said, her voice barely above a breath. Her hands trembled as she held the document.

"Marcus Hawthorne," Liam growled as he snatched the paper, recognizing he seal that was all too familiar. His eyes scanning the content, darkening with realization. The name was a ghost, resurrected from the depths of betrayal and old wounds.

"Who is he?" Becks asked, sensing the shift in Liam's demeanor.

"An old mentor," Liam replied, the words tasting like venom on his tongue. "He taught me everything about being an agent... I wondered what was up when he ordered me to let Sokolov go, but I never thought he'd be capable of this."

"Capable of what, exactly?" Her question hung in the air, demanding answers that Liam wasn't sure he wanted to confront.

"Of leadingDrStefani Umbra, or at least being in league with Cezar Baro, and helping to orchestrate this terror from the shadows." His fists clenched; Becks could see the revelation had ignited a fire of anger and disbelief within him. “We know the enemy now. Cezar Baro and Marcus Hawthorne won't see us coming."

"Then let's end this," Becks said.

"Agreed." Liam's voice was a whisper of dark promise, a vow that bound him to action. Together, they stepped back into the shadows, their partnership forged deeper by the truths unveiled, ready to confront the sinister tangle of deceit woven by the man Liam had once trusted.

Chapter Eight

Liam

Later as the moon slipped through the clouded night sky, Liam crouched in the shadows, his breath measured as he scanned the moonlit tendrils of fog that curled around the ancient stone arches. He had Becks tucked away, where she was safe. The runes carved into the rock pulsed with a forgotten power, casting an eerie glow that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. This place, where humanity had once teetered on the edge of extinction, now set the stage for another kind of warfare—a battle of wits and wills.

"Marcus," Liam said, the name tasting like betrayal on his tongue. He spoke it into the silence, watching as his former handler emerged from the mist, his salt-and-pepper hair almost silver under the moonlight.

"O'Shea," Marcus replied, his voice a low rumble, heavy with secrets. "I was so hoping to avoid a direct confrontation with you. My people lost you in Oxford. You've become quite the ghost."

"Learned from the best, didn't I?" The words were laced with sarcasm, but the underlying tension was palpable. Liam's eyes remained locked on Marcus, reading the micro-expressions that flickered across the older man's face.

"Is that why you're here? To haunt me, or have I become the prey to your predator?" Marcus ventured a step closer, his body language guarded yet deliberate.

"Cezar Baro," Liam stated flatly, allowing the name to hang between them like a guillotine's blade. "What's your game, Marcus? You've always been one to play one side against the other, but this is next level."

Marcus’ gaze held steady, unflinching. "I did what I had to do. MI6 isn't what it used to be, Liam. You know that better than anyone. Too many politicians with delusions of being James Bond."

Liam felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, the instinctual readiness to engage in combat. Yet, this confrontation demanded restraint—a chess match rather than a street fight. "You've thrown in with the Wanderers, with Baro. Why?"

"Survival," Marcus answered, his tone suggesting layers that went unspoken. "Sometimes, the lines we draw in the sand are washed away by the tide. We must adapt or perish."

"By throwing in with terrorists?" Liam asked, the emotional control he valued was being strained to its limits. Betrayal wasn't just a fear; it was a razor-sharp reality cutting through the fabric of his trust.

"Look beyond the surface, Liam. There's more to this plot than the obvious threads." Marcus tilted his head slightly, the scar above his right eyebrow catching the light. "You're not the only one who wants to see an end to Baro's machinations."

"Then come clean," Liam urged, stepping out of the shadows. "Help me take him down."

"Words are wind, actions are truth," Marcus countered, his eyes reflecting a depth of regret. "Watch your back, O'Shea. Trust no one."

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