Page 3 of Fractured Allegiance
There’s a smear on my left boot. Too close to the tread. Could leave a mark outside.
I kneel, and dig a small cloth from my back pocket to scrape it clean with short, brutal strokes until the rubber’s spotless. It’s not about vanity. Blood’s a loud bastard when you let it speak unchecked.
When I stand, the phone in my pocket starts to buzz.
I already know who it is. But I walk to the far corner of the warehouse, out of sight and leaned against a stack of collapsed crates, before I pull the phone to my ear.
“Silas,” she says. No greeting, as per usual.
“Naomi.”
“You’re finished?”
“Yes.”
“You left them visible?”
“Yes.”
“Did Drazen suspect?”
“Not enough to kill me. Yet.”
She hums. It’s not a pleasant sound. Like glass dragged across marble.
“You’re now inside,” she says. “Congratulations.”
I don’t answer.
She doesn’t care.
Naomi Wells, my Bureau handler, has never once asked how I sleep. She only ever asks if I’ve closed the case. If the gun went off clean. If the wire worked. If the mask stayed fixed.
“You’ve been monitoring?” I ask.
“We have partial coverage from outside. Audio only. We’ll need visuals once you’re deeper. Drazen moves in shadows.”
“So do I.”
“Not like him,” she says.
The line goes quiet for a second, until I’m almost certain she’s already hung up. Then, she asks, “Anything else?”
“He told me to get a drink,” I inform her flatly.
“Then do it.”
I wait. There’s usually more.
Predictably, Naomi instructs, “Stay clearheaded. You’re not a local. You don’t have margin for mistakes.”
I almost say something. About the bodies. About the way Drazen watched me like he was weighing organs on a scale.
But I don’t. What’s the point?
“Copy that,” I say.
This time, I hear it when Naomi ends the call.
