Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
So, I don’t talk.
I move.
I take advantage of his nervousness, and in three swift steps, I close the distance between us. My hand catches his wrist before he can draw his weapon, twisting sharply. He yelps, off-balance, and I use his momentum against him, throwing my hip so it sends him crashing to the floor. His head bounces off the concrete with a sound that makes me wince.
Ouch.
He doesn’t get up.
“Mia?” Bayo’s voice is sharp. “What happened?”
“Just a hiccup.” I check the guard’s pulse—steady, if a bit slow. He’ll have a bloody headache in the morning, but he’ll live. “He’ll be out for a while. I need to move.”
I’m through the service entrance and over the fence before anyone else can respond. The night swallows me whole, and I don’t stop running until I’m three blocks away, pressed against the side of a bodega with my breath coming in ragged gasps. I’m out of practice, and my lungs are punishing me for it.
“You’re clear,” Bayo says. “No pursuit. Nice work.”
“Tell that to my heart rate.”
I close my eyes, letting the adrenaline ebb. The data siphon is a solid weight in my pocket. Project Prometheus. Whatever Kapoor found, whatever got him killed—I’m one step closer to finding it too.
And somewhere across the river, Vanguard is sleeping in his penthouse, dreaming whatever dreams a superhero dreams, completely unaware the woman he shared a milkshake with just broke into one of his employer’s facilities.
Let the games begin.
CHAPTER 10
VANGUARD
Global Dynamix has transformed the plaza outside their Midtown headquarters into a spectacle, from giant holographic displays cycling through footage of my greatest hits to merchandise booths hawking everything from action figures to branded protein powder. A crowd of thousands is pressed against barricades, their phones raised like offerings to a god they’ve never met.
I loathe these events. The performance of it all. The careful choreography of heroism reduced to a marketing opportunity. It’s a circus at heart, at best.
And today’s circus has a new act. Step right up folks, Vanguard is old news now. Introducing, Paragon—Global Dynamix’s worst-kept secret. I’ve heard the rumors for months now, caught fragments of conversation that went quiet when I entered rooms, seen requisition orders for equipment that wasn’t meant for me. Not to mention, Julia’s been cagey whenever I’ve asked, deflecting with corporate-speak about ‘expanding the program’ and ‘meeting future demand.’ I’ve never actually seen Paragon, never been in the same room. For something that’s supposed to be my partner, if not colleague, they’ve kept us remarkably separate.
Until today.
I try and push that out of my head, my thoughts naturally drifting to Mia.
I spotted her the moment I landed on the main stage—a flash of dark hair in the press section, that leather jacket she seems to live in with her beat-up purse, her face tilted up toward me with an odd expression, like she can’t quite figure out who I am today. She’s got a press badge clipped to her lapel, a tablet in her hand like the dutiful journalist she is, but when our eyes meet across the sea of people, something electric passes between us.
It’s undeniable.
She doesn’t wave or smile or acknowledge me in any way. She just holds my gaze for a beat too long before looking away, which tells me she feels it too.
And suddenly, this isn’t just another showcase.
It’s a performance.
From me to her.
“You’re distracted,” Julia says quietly, appearing at my elbow. She’s in her element today, dressed in a sleek white suit, her silvery blonde hair immaculate, that sharp smile enhanced with red lipstick she reserves for public appearances ready to go. “I need you focused. This is important.”
“I’m always focused,” I say, straightening my back.
“You’re looking at the press section.”
I don’t bother denying it. “I am. Mia Baxter is here.”
“I’m aware.” Julia’s tone is clipped. “I approved her credentials myself. Try not to let her presence affect your performance.”
Way too late for that.
The crowd roars as Global Dynamix’s CEO, Conrad Marsh, takes the stage, all white teeth and Gucci suit and the kind of charisma that makes you want to pour bleach in your bathwater. He launches into his speech, the usual gibberish about the company’s commitment to public safety, the next chapter in American heroism, blah blah fucking blah. I tune him out, scanning the plaza instead.
That’s when I see it.
Or him, rather.
A shape descending from the sky, sleek, black, and silent.
Paragon.
The crowd’s reaction changes from excitement to awe as the figure lands on stage beside me. Where my suit is tactical, functional, designed for a soldier, Paragon’s armor is akin to an astronaut or a futuristic space solider. It’s covered in obsidian plates that seem to absorb light, a full helmet that reveals nothing of the face beneath, and his movements are so fluid, they’re almost mechanical.
Scratch that. They are mechanical. I can hear them whirring.