Chapter 14: The Berlin File
1288 Words
POV: Julian
Monday morning arrived like a hangover.
The sun was gone, replaced by the usual London grey. The pillow fort had been dismantled. Leo was at school (dropped off by a very alert Ezra). And I was sitting in the back of a dim, smoke-filled internet café in Hackney, staring at a man named Spider.
Spider wasn't a arachnid enthusiast; he was the best information broker in Europe. He smelled of Red Bull and ozone.
"You asked for a ghost story, Vane," Spider muttered, sliding a thick manila envelope across the scratched table. "And you got one. This cost me three favors and a firewall breach I’m going to be patching for a month."
I stared at the envelope. "Ezra Cohen."
"That’s the alias," Spider corrected, tapping a stained fingernail on the paper. "The name he’s using now. But the man in your kitchen? He doesn't have a birth certificate. He doesn't have a tax record. According to the databases, he was never born."
I picked up the envelope. It felt heavy. Heavier than paper should be.
"So who is he?"
"Open it," Spider said, turning back to his wall of monitors. "But Julian? If this guy is sleeping in your house... don't make him angry. And for God’s sake, don't let him know you pulled this."
I walked out of the café and into the drizzle. I didn't open the file until I was safely in the back of my town car.
I slid the papers out.
Most of it was redacted. Black bars covered locations, dates, and commanding officers. But the photos were clear.
Photo 1: Ezra, younger, harder. Shaved head. Standing in a desert with a sniper rifle that looked like a cannon.
Photo 2: A grainy surveillance shot of Ezra walking out of a building in Vienna. The building was burning in the background.
Photo 3: A mugshot. Not police. Military. Underneath, the designation: ASSET 734. CODENAME: WRAITH.
I scanned the unredacted text.
Subject 734. Black Ops Division. Specialization: Infiltration, Assassination, Interrogation.
Status: BURNED.
Location: Berlin, 2018. Operation failed. Asset marked for termination. Asset neutralized pursuit team and vanished.
I sat back, the papers crinkling in my grip.
He wasn't just retired. He was a rogue agent. He was a man who had been hunted by his own government and had killed the hunters.
I thought about the man who flipped crêpes in my shirt. I thought about the man who taught my son to walk silently.
I hadn't hired a bodyguard. I was sleeping with a war criminal.
"Home, Arthur," I told the driver. "Fast."
The penthouse was quiet when I arrived.
I found Ezra in the laundry room. He was folding Leo’s tiny cargo pants. He was wearing his glasses and a soft beige sweater, looking for all the world like the domestic god he pretended to be.
He didn't turn around when I entered.
"You're tense," Ezra said, smoothing a wrinkle in the fabric. "And your heart rate is elevated. Did the meeting with the broker go poorly?"
I froze. "I didn't say I was meeting a broker."
Ezra turned. His expression was mild, but his eyes were alert behind the lenses.
"You're a Fixer, Julian. You don't like unanswered questions. After the garage ambush, your paranoia won out over your lust. You went digging."
He looked at the manila envelope in my hand.
"Spider is good," Ezra noted casually. "But his encryption methods are dated. I knew he pinged my old file at 9:03 AM."
I threw the envelope onto the folding table. It slid across the surface, hitting a stack of towels.
"Asset 734," I said. "Wraith."
Ezra flinched. It was barely there—a micro-expression of pain—but I saw it.
"That name is dead," he whispered.
"Berlin," I pressed, stepping closer. "It says you were marked for termination. It says you went rogue."
"I refused an order," Ezra said, his voice hardening. He took off his glasses and set them on the dryer. "They wanted me to eliminate a target. A family. Collateral damage was deemed 'acceptable.' I disagreed."
He looked up at me. The predator was back.
"So I eliminated the person giving the order instead. And then I ran."
He walked past me, heading for the guest room.
"Where are you going?" I demanded, following him.
"Packing," Ezra said. He walked into his room and pulled a black duffel bag from under the bed. He started throwing things into it—his knives, his tactical vest, a few sweaters.
"Stop," I said.
"Thorne knows who I am," Ezra said, not stopping. "If he digs deep enough, he’ll find the Berlin file. And if he finds that, he sells the info to the people who are still hunting me. If I stay here, Julian, I don't just put you in danger of local thugs. I bring a drone strike down on your roof."
He zipped the bag. He looked at me, his grey eyes anguished.
"I broke my own rule. I got attached. I stayed too long."
He shouldered the bag and moved toward the door.
"Get out of my way, Julian."
I stood in the doorway. I blocked his path.
"No."
Ezra stopped. "Julian. Move. I am trying to save your life."
"I didn't hire Asset 734," I said calmly. "I hired Ezra. I hired the man who makes sourdough and teaches my son about perimeter defense."
"They are the same person!" Ezra shouted, the first time I had ever heard him raise his voice in anger. "The monster is the only reason the Nanny exists! You can't separate the blood from the hands, Julian!"
I reached out. I grabbed the strap of his duffel bag.
"I know," I said. "And I don't care."
Ezra stared at me. He looked shocked.
"I'm a Fixer," I reminded him, stepping closer until I was in his personal space. "I deal with monsters every day. I clean up their messes. I hide their bodies. I have never met a monster who apologized for bleeding on my upholstery."
I pulled the bag from his shoulder and dropped it to the floor.
"You're not leaving," I told him. "You're not running anymore. You said this was a safe harbor. You said the Wolf was guarding the door."
I took his face in my hands.
"Well, the Wolf lives here now. And we don't abandon the pack."
Ezra trembled. He leaned into my touch, closing his eyes.
"You have no idea what you're asking," he whispered. "If they come for me..."
"Then we kill them," I said simply. "We have a secure perimeter. We have enough weapons to invade a small country. And we have you."
I kissed him. It was a seal. A promise.
"Unpack the bag, Ezra," I ordered softly against his lips. "Leo will be home in two hours. He expects a snack."
Ezra let out a shuddering breath. He opened his eyes. They weren't dead anymore. They were fierce.
"Apple slices," Ezra murmured. "With peanut butter. He needs protein."
"Good."
I stepped back.
"I’m going to go burn this file," I said, pointing to the envelope in the other room. "And then I’m going to call Thorne and tell him to go to hell."
Ezra smiled. It was a sharp, dangerous thing.
"Don't call him yet," Ezra said. He reached down and unzipped his bag, pulling out a matte black radio jammer and a handful of strange-looking sensors.
"Why?"
"Because if Thorne found the file," Ezra said, walking to the window and scanning the skyline, "he knows he can't beat me in a straight fight. He won't send mercenaries again."
Ezra turned to me.
"He's going to change the rules. We need to be ready."
- Writer
