The convoy stopped beneath the blinding halogen lights of the glass security pavilion attached to the main house.
"Out," a guard barked, opening my door.
I scrambled out, clutching my duffel bag to my chest, my shoulders hunched so high they touched my ears. I stood in the center of the room, surrounded by men holding assault rifles.
An older man in a pristine tailored suit walked toward me. Arthur Pembroke, the head butler. His eyes swept over my cheap clothes and messy hair with absolute disdain.
"Confiscate her belongings. Full biometric scan," Arthur ordered smoothly.
A guard ripped the bag from my arms. I let out a pathetic whine, reaching for it. "There's nothing in there! Just clothes and... and mints!"
The guard dumped the bag on a metal table. Three ratty t-shirts and a tin of cheap mints spilled out. Arthur sneered and waved his hand.
"Step into the scanner," Cole commanded, pointing to a massive glass tube.
I shuffled forward, my head down. I stepped inside. A harsh blue light swept over my body, checking for weapons, wires, and explosives. The screen flashed green. Clean.
I stepped out, shivering.
"Fingerprints and iris scan," Cole said, tapping a digital pad on the wall.
My stomach tightened. The CIA database held my real biometrics. If my real prints hit his system, alarms would trigger instantly.
I took a step toward the machine, pretending to trip over my own feet. My shoulder slammed into a heavy metal trash can. It crashed to the floor with a deafening clatter, spilling garbage everywhere.
"Watch it, you idiot!" Cole roared, his hand dropping to his holster.
I dropped to my knees, sobbing loudly. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I'll clean it up!"
I scrambled on the floor, grabbing the trash. As my hands moved frantically, I pressed my right thumb and index finger against the inside of my pocket.
A micro-thin layer of chemical polymer adhered to my skin.
I stood up, wiping my tears, my hands shaking violently. I pressed my fingers onto the glass scanner.
The machine beeped. The screen lit up green. It registered the fake prints Zane had planted in the dark web database.
"Look at the camera," Cole snapped.
I widened my eyes, staring into the red laser. The specialized contact lenses I wore refracted the light, feeding the scanner a dead woman's iris pattern.
Green light.
Cole sighed in annoyance. "She's clear. Get her out of my sight."
Arthur grabbed my arm and dragged me down a labyrinth of hallways. "You will not touch the art. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will clean the east wing starting at six AM."
I nodded rapidly, keeping my eyes on the floor. But my peripheral vision was snapping mental photographs. Camera models. Blind spots. Patrol routes.
Arthur shoved me into a damp, windowless room in the basement. An iron cot and a small metal locker. He slammed the door, the lock clicking heavily.
I collapsed onto the thin mattress. I let out a loud, exhausted groan.
I lay perfectly still for ten minutes. I listened to the silence. No breathing behind the walls. No electronic hum of hidden microphones.
I sat up. The trembling stopped. My spine straightened.
I walked over to my confiscated belongings. I picked up the tin of mints. I popped the false bottom off with my thumbnail and extracted a microchip the size of a fingernail clipping.
I slid the chip into the side of my cheap digital watch. The cracked screen glowed blue.
Inside. Secure. I typed the encrypted message to Zane.
Five floors above me, Apollo sat in his dark study. He was staring at the live feed of my room.
He watched me lying on the bed, my back to the camera.
He unbuttoned his collar. The Wyvern mark on his spine throbbed with a dull, angry heat. He rubbed his chest, his breathing growing shallow.
He wanted to go down there. He wanted to grab my wrist again. He wanted that silence in his head.
He slammed his fist onto the mahogany desk, furious at his own lack of control. He hit the intercom. "Cole. Put two men outside the basement door. She doesn't leave that room until morning."
