Page 131 of Dating Goals
“What about Anika?” I ask suddenly. “Is she in danger?”
Something flickers across Wilde’s face.
I narrow my eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Showalter shifts uncomfortably, not meeting my eyes. “About Miss Gisler…”
The world narrows to a pinpoint. Blood roars in my ears.
“What about Anika?” My voice sounds strange, distant.
“She’s gone missing,” Wilde says, his words hitting me like a cold knife to the chest. “She never opened the pub this afternoon, yet the doors were wide open and there were signs of a struggle. We believe OMBRA has taken her.”
26
GRIFFIN
The afternoon air is frigid as I approach OMBRA’s fortress. The decommissioned glacier observatory looks like something ripped straight out of a villain’s Pinterest board. All sleek metal and glass perched impossibly on the jagged edge of the Monte Rosa Massif, right on the border of Switzerland and Italy.
“McGregor, status check.” Wilde’s voice comes through my earpiece.
“Freezing my butt off, thanks for asking.”
I didn’t sleep last night. Instead, I spent hours in a tactical briefing, learning entry points, exit strategies, and contingency plans. The instructions were clear. Use my connection with Nero to approach the fortress openly. Don’t attempt entry. Wait for MI6 to engage, then ski down to the extraction point.
Early this morning, just as expected, Elodie…Nero…(still getting used to that) sent me an encrypted text message, almost as if she’d known I’d try to rescue Anika. I was told to come alone. The whole thing smells like a trap.
“Remember your instructions,” Bruderlin cuts in. “No heroics.”
“Got it. Get in, get out, no stopping for gift shop souvenirs.”
A red light blinks on at the observatory’s entrance.
“Movement at the main door,” I whisper.
“Maintain position,” Wilde orders.
“Copy,” I mutter, checking my watch.
The gadgets they’ve given me seem woefully inadequate. But at least the watch is a fancy Swiss timepiece, courtesy of FIS. It supposedly contains a tracking device, electromagnetic pulse generator, and can shoot a tiny grappling hook. I practiced with it for approximately eight minutes before we deployed, so naturally, I’m an expert now.
A pair of OMBRA guards patrol the snowy perimeter below, assault rifles slung across their chests. They glance up occasionally, scanning the cliffs.
“Guards circling,” I whisper. “Window closing.”
“Stand firm. Wait for my signal.”
Another minute ticks by. The guards move closer to my position. If they catch me lurking around instead of acting like an invited guest, they’ll shoot now and ask questions later.
“Target approaching checkpoint alpha,” a voice murmurs. “Stand by, McGregor.”
“They’re going to spot me,” I hiss.
“Hold position!”
One guard stops, shielding his eyes to peer up at the ridge where I’m hiding. He nudges his partner, pointing in my direction.
“I’m compromised,” I mutter.
