Page 20 of Fractured Allegiance

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I walk across the room and open the fridge. It hums like it’s dying. There’s nothing inside but two bottles of water.

“He’s still testing me.”

“And you’re coasting.”

I take one of the waters out, twist the cap, and don’t drink it just yet.

I step to the window and look down at the street. Cars moving like blood through arteries. A couple smoking near the curb. A woman in heels too tall for the hour.

“She’s connected,” I say.

It slips.

Too fast.

Naomi clocks it.

“Who?” she asks.

I pause.

Then: “Nothing.”

“Don’t tell me you’re slipping.”

“I’m not.”

The line holds.

Then she says, “Then give me something. One name. One drop point. One lever I can pull.”

And the line goes dead.

I put the phone down and finally drink the water.

It tastes like metal.

I know what she’s doing. Naomi doesn’t break. She fractures others. And right now, she thinks I’m distracted.

Maybe I am.

Because when I close my eyes, I’m not thinking about the gun. Or the club. Or Drazen.

I’m thinking about the woman who walked into my office without knocking.

The one who didn’t smile.

Didn’t flirt.

Didn’t flinch.

And now she won’t leave my head.

The Bureau doesn't need faith.

They need proof.

I lock the front door, kill the lights, and pull the laptop from the floorboard compartment in the closet. It's old, padded in rubber casing, and marked like a machine no one sane should steal.

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