Page 7 of The Knight

Zak’s voice rose above a burst of static. “Copy that. Bring him up to level two, room 27. We’ve got it prepped for questioning.”

“Copy,” Fox replied as they moved the man toward the service elevator.

“There’s more.” Zak cleared his throat.

Hairs rose on the back of Abe’s neck.Bad news incoming.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft, pneumatic hiss.

“Leo’s just been in touch. We’ve got a Raptor situation brewing.”

Fuck.

4

Freya jolted awake,her pulse racing.

Disorientation clouded her mind briefly before reality came crashing back. She was on her couch, fully dressed, the rough fabric of her borrowed clothes uncomfortable against her skin. Her watch face swam into focus. It was after nine. Despite her certainty that sleep would elude her forever, exhaustion had claimed her for a few precious hours after she’d collapsed at three in the morning.

She sat up, wincing as her muscles protested the movement. The blanket slid from her body. Morning light filtering through the blinds needled her retinas. Her eyelids scraped like sandpaper with each blink but at least she could breathe without difficulty now, even if the acrid taste of tear gas still coated the back of her throat, a phantom burning that made her want to gag.

Last night.

Memories hit her with the force of a freight train. The attack. The struggle. The choking, blinding gas.

She half-expected to see masked assailants lurking in the shadows of her small living room.

Her lab.God, the lab.She pressed her fingertips against her eyelids, seeing in her mind’s eye the overturned boxes, shattered glassware, and the lingering haze of tear gas. Her sanctuary reduced to a battleground. Even her clothes had been casualties, bagged up for disposal by Roger.

She reached out and skimmed her fingers along the laptop case resting on her coffee table. The data was secure. She hadn’t let it out of her sight, not even for a moment.

She swung her legs out from under the blanket, bare feet connecting with the chilly hardwood floor. The shock of cold helped to wake her. She dragged her fingers through her tangled hair, catching on knots that had formed during restless sleep.

Emotion threatened to swamp her, but she swallowed it down, allowing only anger to rise. Anger at the attackers who had violated her sanctuary. Anger at the security measures that had failed so spectacularly. And most of all, anger at herself for not expecting this—she was always prepared.

Right now, she needed clarity and answers and coffee, preferably by IV. She padded through to her bathroom, where she splashed cold water on her face before dragging a hairbrush through her hair. She tied it back with an elastic, ignoring the dark smudges under her eyes. Far from her best, but she was presentable. She would pick up coffee on the way back to the lab.

Showered and changed back into her own clothes, she drove back to Hellisheidi from her rental house, picking up coffee on the way. The drive felt surreal, and she held the steering wheel in an iron grip, her eyes constantly darting to the rear-view mirror, half-expecting to see masked pursuers.

She hurried through security and headed for her lab.

It was a war zone.

Papers lay strewn haphazardly across every surface, and broken glass glittered in lethal shards on the floor. The storageboxes she had so painstakingly catalogued were strewn on the floor and several were burst open.

She huffed out a long breath as she placed her coffee on the counter.

It was Saturday and the cleaners wouldn’t arrive till Monday morning. She should be at home resting, but being there just meant tidying an already immaculate house and eating by herself. At least here, amid this destruction, she felt a sense of purpose. Maybe she should make a list?—

The lab door beeped.

Freya tensed as the door lock released with a clunk.

“Freya?” The voice was familiar.Tinna.“Are you okay?”

Tinna’s hair was disheveled and her cheeks were pink from the bitter day outside.

“Oh, my God.” Tinna hurried across the room. She came to an abrupt stop in front of Freya. “Your poor face. You look like you’ve done ten rounds in a boxing ring.”

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