Page 17 of Cipher: Lethal Algorithm

“Watch me, Boy Scout.”

She pulls into the drop-off lane and slams the car into park with a forward roll that nearly tosses me into the dashboard. She kills the engine. 06:03 local.

And goes still.

The dock below the terminal is empty. Flat, dark water; a single rusted bollard. The 06:00 service to Hong Kong isn’t late. It’s gone.

“What?” Her voice is too flat.

“It sailed at 05:55.” My voice is entirely too smooth. “Operational security. They changed the schedule due to ‘maintenance’ three hours ago. I could have told you, but I figured you’d want the dramatic reveal. It fits your brand, doesn’t it?”

“You.” Her head snaps toward me, eyes blazing. “You did this. You manipulated the logs.”

“I ensured you stayed in the only environment I can protect.” I offer her a small, unapologetic shrug. “I told you. Ghosts getlonely. I’m making sure you have company for the next few hours.”

She turns on me, her hand flashing to the center console. She grips the edge of the seat, leaning into my space until we’re sharing the same air. Her breathing is shallow and fast.

“You’re an arrogant, manipulative, overbearing son of a bitch, Rhodes.”

“And you’re a brilliant, stubborn, and currently stranded computer genius.” I meet her gaze, the silence in the car vibrating with the need to either kill each other or do something much more complicated. “Now... my safe house has coffee. Real coffee. Not the sludge you’ve been drinking to keep the fear at bay.”

She gets out of the car, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the chassis. I follow, watching the way her shirt clings to her back, the way she marches away like she’s going to war.

“You think you’ve won.” She doesn’t look at me. “You think you’ve herded me exactly where you want me.”

“I’ve kept you alive. What you do with that life is up to you.” I raise my hand, and a red-and-black cab slows.

Three seconds of silence. Then she’s beside me, eyes fixed on the horizon.

The cab stops. I open the rear door and hold it open with a mocking, courtly bow.

“Coloane Village,” I tell the driver.

She gets in without a word, sliding to the far side. I slide in beside her, our shoulders brushing. The engine thrums.

“If you ever touch my data again.” Her voice is a low vibration. “I’ll bury you in a server you can’t find.”

“I look forward to the challenge.” I lean back and let my arm rest along the back of the seat, just inches from her hair. “By the way, the vine? It’s a bit needy. But the coding is exceptional. You really are quite good.”

She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t move away.

We drive into the light.

5

The Architecture

IVY

The safe houseisn’t a bunker. It doesn’t smell like industrial cleaner and bad decisions, staffed by men with identical haircuts and earpieces.

Instead, the cab drops us on a narrow street in Coloane Village. The air here tastes different—saltier, heavier with the sea, lacking the electrified copper tang of the casino strip. The buildings are old Portuguese colonial, painted faded yellows and peeling greens. It feels exactly like the kind of place you go when you want the world to forget you exist.

The cab pulls away. I stand on the curb. Go-bag strap cutting into my left shoulder. Glock 43 holstered at my right hip.

Exhaustion isn’t a state anymore; it’s an environment I’m navigating. Thirty-odd hours awake. Three hours of counter-surveillance. Eleven weeks of being hunted by the Consortium.

And eleven weeks of being tracked by the man standing three feet to my right.