Page 29 of Cold Mercy

“Yes. What did you find?”

“It’s not a computer service. It’s not even a real company. The so-called owner? He’s known in the underground as Cruz. Small player, probably just a pawn in Aurora, but he gets around town for five.”

My pulse spikes as I remember Noah's words. They met at least once a month, and Noah always insisted he was someone influential with whom he had to maintain good relations.

“And?”

“Two weeks from now, Cruz is making a handoff at midnight in an old cargo warehouse on Thirty-Seventh and Barker in Queens, and it's something bigger. If Noah had files from them… they weren’t fixing your servers.”

Letting out a sharp breath, I hang up before he can add more. He could just as well have wanted something more from Noah, who refused, and that's why he got shot. This informant is also one of those junkies who will do anything for a fix, so that phone call could just as well have been made up. I will check it anyway.

My legs feel heavier on the way back to the stable. I open the door and immediately feel something is wrong. Thomas is gone, and an unnerving calm has settled over the horses. It's too quiet, and my eyes scan the stable, searching for what's wrong. A prickle of unease goes down my spine, and then I see it: the side door, the one almost flush with the wall. The one I never leave open. Perfect. I invited a stranger five feet from everything I’ve spent two years hiding.

There is a large wooden chest right at the entrance. I scatter weapons around this place the way normal people scatter throw pillows. I should be ashamed, but this is my land, my mess, my damn precaution. And today it might save my life.

I pull the rifle from the chest and move toward the back doors, the ones I should have locked, bolted, anything but left wide open like an idiot who forgot who she is.

Pushing the doors open with my shoulder, I find Thomas inside.

He’s standing with his back to the entrance, facing my entire investigation board. Photos, scribbles, timelines, maps, strings. All of it laid out like a confession.

He has no right to be here. I step silently behind him, raise the rifle to his back, and chamber a round loud enough to slice the air.

“You lost, Reed?”

He freezes for only a breath, his expression not one of fear, but something closer to amusement. Then he slowly lifts his hands and turns, that little smirk still glued to his mouth.

I lift the rifle higher, right between his eyes.

“On your knees. Hands on your head.”

He obeys… sort of. One knee down, hands laced on his head, the smirk deepening.

“We barely know each other, princess. Proposing already? Maybe we should start with the tea you promised.”

I knew it. I knew there was something off about him. And I practically handed him everything, including my goddamn spine.

“Who do you work for?” My voice snaps. “And don’t lie. I’m not in the mood to clean your blood tonight.”

He moves before I finish the sentence, smooth and controlled in a way that tells me this isn’t instinct or luck. He knocks the rifle from my hands, pulls me back against his chest, one arm locking around my waist, the other bracing my shoulder so I can’t twist free. My back slams into him, knocking the breath from my lungs.

His breath brushes my ear.

“You look damn good with a gun, Moreau,” he murmurs. “But that’s not how you get answers.”

My nerves ignite. I kick back hard, elbow him wherever I can reach, break the hold, and spin away with my fists raised. Adrenaline makes everything sharp as he lifts his hands, palms open, in an almost teasing gesture.

“Sit down and talk to me, Sophia.”

“Do I look like I want to fucking talk?” I snarl. “Tell me who you work for.”

We circle each other like predators on uneven ground.

He doesn’t attack, doesn’t even flinch. He is just walking with his hands up in surrender.

“I’m serious, Sophia. Drop the guard for one damn second. I’m not here to fight you.”

I smirk, sharp and humorless.