Page 25 of Silver Elite

“So you admit you were trying to interfere with Command business?” Ford lifts an eyebrow again.

“No, I was trying to save my uncle because he didn’t do anything wrong. You guys are wrong. About all of it.” I shove the tablet toward them. “Jim is not a ’fect. We can go through your file, page by page, line by line, and it wouldn’t change a damn thing in my eyes.”

“No. This man, your uncle, the corpse with all those bullets in his chest”—I flinch at Ford’s gruesome description—“is Colonel Julian Ash. His fingerprints confirmed it.”

“You’re lying.”

“The fingerprints confirmed it,” Struck reiterates. “We don’t know how Ash managed to switch out his prints in the Company’s system—”

I do. We have people everywhere.

“—but they were compared with the ones from his Command file and it’s a perfect match.”

“I don’t believe you,” I say stubbornly, while inside I’m beyond grateful they can’t find fault in my own file. Children aren’t printed and logged in the Continental ID system until the age of twelve, which means these people will never know who I was before I entered the database. As far as they’re concerned, I’ve always been Wren Darlington.

“You don’t believe us, huh? What a coincidence. We don’t believe you, either.” Ford smirks as he pushes his chair back.

They both rise. Struck tucks the tablet under her arm.

“What? That’s it?” I wrinkle my forehead. “We’re done?”

“Oh no, sweetling,” Ford says. “We’ve just begun.”

They approach the door, waiting for the stranger from the inn to step aside.

“What about you?” I demand, glowering at his back. “Mr. Silent over here. Got nothing to say? Who are you?”

He stops, turning to spare me a glance over his shoulder. His lips curve slightly as he finally speaks.

“I’m the one who decides whether you walk out of here alive.”

Chapter 6

They leave me in the room for nearly three hours. Alone, but not truly alone. I’m conscious of the red light in the corner of the ceiling. They’re watching me, so I maintain an anguished expression. They need to believe I’m scared. Worried about what they’ll do to me. I slump forward in the chair, wringing my hands on the cool tabletop. Meanwhile, I’m taking advantage of the veins I’ve been gifted with and attempting to link with Declan. But the man is taking the role ofsilent contactliterally. As in, he remains emphatically silent. I guess I’m not surprised. They tried to set me up in a safe house and I ran. He’s probably pissed.

Besides, they couldn’t be bothered to rescue Jim, and he’d once been a crucial cog in the Uprising machine. I’m not even crucial-adjacent.

That makes me disposable.

Tana is also quiet, which is cause for concern. Declan said my village was teeming with soldiers, and that was before I got detained. Are they questioning anyone who might know me? I hope Tana and Griff are safe, but as long as she keeps our link closed, all I can do is worry and pray.

When Ford and Mr. Silent return, they’re accompanied by a different woman.

This one doesn’t need an introduction.

It’s Jayde Valence.

Anxiety flutters in my stomach. I’ve never heard of a single person who’s come out triumphant in an interrogation with Valence.

Even Uncle Jim’s shield couldn’t hold up.

I try not to stare at her, but it’s difficult. It’s no secret why the General, who ranks Mods on the same level as the rabid rats that scurry in the Point’s alleys, chose to swallow his revulsion and allow Jayde into his inner circle. She’s too powerful a tool not to use. Proof of that is literally written on her face. Her bloodmark sits high on her left cheek. It’s a perfect red circle, about two inches in diameter and a stark contrast with her lily-white skin.

I shudder to think about what might have been if my own mark appeared somewhere other than my thigh. Would Jim have burned my face? I’d like to believe he wouldn’t have, but deep down I know the answer is yes. He made my parents a promise, and he would’ve gone to any lengths to protect me.

Jayde walks toward the table. The two men flank the door, leaning against the cinder-block walls. Arms crossed. Bored expressions.

“Wren Darlington,” she says.

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