Nola scribbled the words below Mint’s coffin, not even realizing she was doing it. Fool. You’re a novice fool, she told herself, erasing them just as fast. When did you get so sloppy?—though she knew the answer. This close to home, this close to her old life, to Mint and what he did for her . . . then to have Zig show up . . . That was why they’d sent him, wasn’t it? The dumb old dope was so excited to come back, he didn’t even realize he—and she—were being used. As always, the unit had a simple goal before they attacked: Make her emotional. Careless.
Nola was usually too smart to let things get personal, but the way her blood was starting to churn . . . No. Don’t let them dictate your path. Find your calm and you’ll find who’s behind this.
Forcing herself to keep drawing, she held her pencil tight, sketching bystanders in the bleachers. She tilted her head, taking notice as one in particular came into view. The man was squat and wore a uniform . . . a cop, Nola realized. But as she started filling in his face—those eyes . . . she knew those eyes . . . they were just like hers—
No.
She hadn’t seen him in decades. But there he was. In the crowd at the funeral.
Her twin brother. Roddy.
Nola’s pencil stabbed through the page, nearly puncturing his face. He was polished and clean now—a cop—but at his core, she knew who he really was.
Nola was moving now, scrambling, bits of gravel spraying across the rooftop, her brain churning through all the possibilities.
The fact that Roddy was here— That meant he knew. He knew the truth about Mint . . . that she and Mint—
Get out! Now! she told herself.
Bursting into the stairwell, Nola darted down, down, down, praying she had it wrong. She needed to run, leave, get answers. Jumping down the last three steps, she hit the push bar at full speed, sending the metal door swinging wide. Someone was crying, and a few mourners still lingered in the parking lot.
Nola lowered her head, speed-walking toward the lot. She thought she’d had it figured out, even the Zig part, but with Roddy in the mix . . . the way he was hiding there, lying in wait . . . A darker thought filled her brain.
Mongol . . . Faber . . . Staedtler . . .
She didn’t want to think it. Her head was still down, trying to stay out of sight. When Nola first heard what happened to Mint, she immediately came running, like this was one of her old missions. But it was time to admit: This wasn’t a mission. It was a trap—and she was standing at the center of—
Kllk.
“Sergeant Brown, you seem like a reasonable person, so I’m going to make a reasonable request,” a man whispered behind her, pressing his gun to the back of her head. “Show me those hands.”
Nola started to turn, reaching for her electroglove.
“And don’t think I’m gonna let you zap me in the head. Malcolm’s still pissed about that,” he said, yanking the glove from her hand, the speed of his attack sending her colored pencils flying across the asphalt, his gun still at her head. He was massive, but spectacularly fast, in a cheap suit just like the other so-called funeral employee. The giveaway was his weapon.
“Please just make this easy, Sergeant Brown,” he added, pulling down on the bolt release.
Nola knew that sound. Submachine gun. Special Forces.
Without a word, Nola raised her hands in the air.
Smiling, he pulled out his handheld mic. “I got her. Package en route,” he said. “Yeah. Don’t worry. I’m on it.”
Shoving her forward with his gun, he reached for his handcuffs. “I don’t know what you did, Sergeant Brown, but damn, is my boss excited to see you.”
9