Page 13 of Shadowfox

“Something to add?”

She hesitated.

I saw the way her shoulders tensed, just slightly, the way she sat just a little lower in her seat, like she was trying to make herself smaller.

“No,” she said.

Manakin glanced at her, then nodded once toward Raines. “She’ll be fine.”

Sparrow didn’t react, but I caught the way she exhaled, slow and measured, as if forcing herself to believe it.

I turned back to Raines.

“Once we’re inside, what’s the next step?”

“You establish your presence,” he said. “Emu, you start setting up meetings with Hungarian trade officials. Play the American diplomat role. Make a little noise, but not too much.”

Will nodded.

“Condor,” Raines continued, looking at me, “you get close to Farkas. Approach him carefully—if he spooks, we lose everything. Start with professional inquiries, then feel him out. If he’s interested in defecting, he’ll let you know.”

I didn’t like the uncertainty of that, but I nodded.

“Sparrow, Egret—your job is to be visible, but not memorable. You’re scientists, observers, people who belong, butnotpeople who matter. Don’t give them a reason to focus on you.”

Egret let out a soft snort but didn’t argue.

Raines sat back, finishing his cigarette.

“Once we have Farkas’s read, we’ll adjust the exit plan, but first, we have to get inside.”

I glanced at the map again.

A thin red line from Vienna to Budapest.

It looked so simple. It wasn’t.

“Questions?” Manakin said, reclaiming his lead.

When no one spoke, he sat back, his chair protesting beneath his weight.

Raines snuffed out his cigarette and stood. “We leave in three hours.”

5

Will

Therainhadstartedup again, tapping against the windowpane like impatient fingers. Everything in Paris sounded like secrets when it rained. The streets outside our flat were slick, the lamps casting lazy, gold-tinted reflections that stretched toward the gutters.

I tossed another shirt into my suitcase, trying to ignore the angst clawing at my ribs.

Thomas was moving through the space, folding things with military precision, pressing the weight of the mission into every neatly creased line. He never let himself think when he packed. I did the opposite.

“This whole thing feels rushed,” I muttered, stuffing a pair of gloves into the side pocket.

“We’re spies. It’s always rushed. Call it an occupational hazard,” Thomas said without looking up. He was rolling up a belt, slotting it next to his folded trousers.

He was too fucking calm.

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