Annelise worked in silence. She laid a fresh gauze pad over the burn. She reached for the medical tape.
Her movements were automatic. Muscle memory took over. She tore the tape with her teeth-a bad habit from the field-and secured the bandage. Then, she began to tie off the ends of the gauze roll to keep it in place.
She looped the fabric, pulled it tight, looped again, and tucked. It was a modified square knot, specifically used by field medics to ensure a dressing wouldn't slip during combat movement.
Francesco felt the knot tighten.
Flashback.
Heat. Dust. The smell of cordite. He was lying in the rubble of a building in Aleppo. His leg was bleeding out. His vision was graying at the edges.
A figure hovered over him. A woman. Her face was covered by a tactical scarf, only her eyes visible. Blue eyes. Icy blue.
She was working on his leg. Her hands were cool. Her movements were precise, efficient. No wasted motion.
She tied the tourniquet. The same pull. The same loop. The same tuck.
Present Day.
Francesco's eyes snapped open. He spun around, grabbing Annelise's wrist. His grip was iron.
"Who taught you that?" he demanded. His voice was harsh, urgent.
Annelise froze. Her heart skipped a beat. She had slipped. The knot.
Her free hand twitched, instinctively moving toward the hidden pocket in her sleeve where she kept a small blade. She stopped herself.
She forced her muscles to relax. She let her jaw go slack. She looked at him with wide, confused eyes.
"What?" she asked. "You're hurting me."
"The knot," Francesco said, not letting go. "That's not a standard first aid knot. Who taught you?"
Annelise blinked. "YouTube."
Francesco stared at her. "YouTube?"
"Yes," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "My... my grandmother. She had ulcers on her legs. I had to dress them every day. I watched videos on how to make the bandages stay on because she moved around a lot in her sleep. Is it wrong?"
She looked at him with such earnest confusion that Francesco felt his certainty waver.
He looked at her hands. They were soft, manicured (mostly). Not the hands of a soldier. And her face... she was just a girl from the suburbs who got caught in a bad engagement.
He slowly released her wrist.
"No," he said, rubbing his temple. "It's not wrong. It's... very professional."
"Did I hurt you?" Annelise asked softly. She reached out and pressed her finger gently against a spot near the burn, knowing exactly where the nerve cluster was.
Francesco hissed in a breath.
"Sorry!" She pulled back. "See? I'm clumsy."
The pain grounded him. It chased away the memory of the blue eyes in the desert.
"It's fine," he said. He buttoned his shirt. He stood up and walked to his briefcase. He pulled out a sleek, black smartphone.
"Your old phone is compromised," he said. "Preston probably has a tracker on it. Use this."
He handed it to her.
Annelise took it. It was a heavy, military-grade encrypted device. A satellite phone disguised as a smartphone.
"Thank you," she said.
She knew exactly what this was. It was a gift, yes. But it was also a leash. Every keystroke, every call, every GPS coordinate would be logged to Francesco's server.
She turned it on. She typed in her passcode-1107. Internally, she noted the choice: the birthday of the real Annelise Phelps, the girl whose identity she'd inhabited. A simple, verifiable piece of data for a man like Francesco to check. A perfect piece of camouflage.
Francesco watched her. She didn't try to hide the screen. She didn't look suspicious.
"The car is ready," Silas announced from the door.
Francesco held out his hand to her. "Let's go. We're going home."
Annelise looked at his hand. It was large, calloused, dangerous.
She placed her hand in his.
"Okay," she said.
