Page 25 of Fractured Allegiance
But she’s not here, and she didn’t see Lydia.
Didn’t feel that stare cut straight through the Bureau wire stitched under my ribs.
I finally rise. Strip off the rest of my clothes. Leave them on the floor and slip into the bathroom.
The shower hisses when I twist the tap, water punching through old pipes like a threat.
I stand under it until the steam fogs the mirror and blurs the man looking back.
It’s not me that he’s watching.
It’s her.
The mirror is a fogged-out echo.
Steam slides down the cracked tile. The kind of building that pretends not to leak.
I dry myself off but don’t dress.
Just sit.
Towel slung across my hips. The fan ticking in the ceiling like it's counting something down.
I check the clock.
3:42 AM.
Which means the dead-drop's probably already gone live.
I drag the laptop out again. Tap twice. The screen stutters awake, soft blue light licking the corners of the room. The encrypted relay pings once. Green.
Location: Dock 17, utility substation.
Tag: BLACK RIB 38
Note: CONFIRM PRESENCE. 0500.
I close it again and reach for a clean shirt. Tactical black. I leave the front open and shove the sleeves to my elbows.
Holster goes on second. Then the burner phone. Then the switchblade tucked vertical behind the waistband.
At five a.m. the city is only half-alive — an hour that belongs to ghosts.
Dock 17 has its own silence.
Not peaceful. Just hollow. The kind of place where sound dies before it echoes.
Cargo crates tower like mausoleums. The bay stinks of salt and rot and rust.
I clock movement by the electrical panel — half-shadowed, crouched. A man zipping a bag. Broad shoulders. Civilian jacket. Steel-toed boots.
Crest: Steele. He’s one of the bureau’s men.
He straightens when he sees me. Nods once. He doesn't bother offering a handshake.
"You're early," he says.
"I'm always early."
