THE REJECTED LUNA

RETURN

The shooting range in the sub-basement of the Shield Consortium was Saskia’s sanctuary. Although the steady thwump of the soundproofing, the sharp scent of gunpowder and cleaning solvent did little to calm the unease feeling deep down inside her.

She was running drills with a compact pistol, putting tight clusters of shots into the silhouette target’s center mass when the door hissed open, breaking her focus. Leo poked his head in, his usual grin wider than usual. “Hey, Volkov. You’ve got a visitor up in the lobby. A… fashionable one. Says it’s urgent.”

Saskia lowered the weapon, engaging the safety with a click. “Client?”

“Not exactly. More like a… I don't have the word for it but brace yourself.” Leo’s eyes sparkled with barely-contained mirth. “She brought an entourage.”

An odd sense of foreboding settled in Saskia’s gut as she rode the elevator up to the minimalistic lobby. Maybe this was the ready she's been feeling uneasy.

She walked out of the elevator, bracing herself for what was to come, but the only new face in the lobby was a young woman standing at the center, looking profoundly out of place amidst the tactical gear advertisements and severe architecture. She was maybe twenty-two, dressed in what looked like a single, seamless piece of ivory silk that cost more than Saskia’s car. Her black hair was a perfect sheet, her makeup a beautiful shimmering masterpiece that made Saskia wonder how much the makeup artist is being paid. She had the poised elegance of an old money-spoiled heiress. Two severe-looking men in impeccably tailored suits flanked her, their posture screaming ‘private security’.

Half a dozen of Saskia’s colleagues were doing a terrible job pretending to work at their desks or the water cooler, but their phones were discreetly angled.

The woman’s gaze locked onto Saskia the moment she stepped off the elevator. It swept over her range gear, the worn pants, the simple tank top, the hearing protection dangling around her neck with a flicker of disdain.

“You are Saskia Volkov?” Her voice was cool, accented, each word perfectly pronounced, but her tone, Saskia could hear the disgust.

“I am and this is a secure facility. Do you have an appointment?”

The woman ignored the question. She took a step closer, her entourage mirroring her. “I am Yuna Kim. You know of my fiancé, Finn O’Connell.”

Ah.

So that was the flavor of today’s nuisance.

Finn had mentioned, in his typically breezy way, that his family was applying some pressure back in Europe. He hadn’t mentioned a fiancée. He certainly hadn’t mentioned a fiancée who would cross an ocean to issue a warning.

“I know a Finn,” Saskia said, her voice flat. “What is the problem?”

Yuna’s perfect lips curved into a deranged smile. “He does not come home, he spends his evenings loitering outside your place of employment like a stray puppy. My sources tell me he asks you out twice a week. This has been going on for months.” She reached into a small, impossibly expensive handbag and withdrew a pale grey envelope. She held it out. “This is for you. A blank check, fill in any amount and consider it a… severance package.”

A snort of laughter came from near the water cooler. Someone quickly turned it into a cough and saskia could no longer hide the amusement in her eyes.

This wasn't the first fiancée to warn her, but this was certainly the first to give her a blank check. But she didn’t take the envelope, she crossed her arms instead. “Ms. Kim. I have rejected every one of Finn’s advances. We are not dating. We are just friends who share the same small city. Your money is irrelevant and your fiancé’s behavior is your problem to manage, not mine.”

A frown broke Yuna’s porcelain composure. “You say that now. He is handsome, he is from a good family. You are…” Her gaze did another sweeping, dismissive inventory, “…okay, who is to say you will not have a moment of weakness? Decide you want a rich, hot man for yourself, since you look broke? This is to ensure you remember your place. Take the money and make it very clear to him you are not interested. Do whatever you can, push him away.”

Saskia felt a profound, bone-deep tiredness. Her back was hurting, a trauma she didn't want to think about, and standing this long without doing anything was beginning to hurt.

“My ‘place’ is right here, doing my job,” She replied, her tone dropping. “I don’t want your money, and I don’t want your fiancé. This conversation is over, so please, you need to leave.”

She turned to go, done with the spectacle.

“He talks about you in his sleep!” Yuna’s yelled, stomping.

Saskia paused but didn’t turn back. “Again,” she said over her shoulder, “Your problem. Not mine, he's your fiance. Security will see you out.”

As she walked back toward the elevators, she heard Leo’s voice, artificially cheerful. “Alright folks, show’s over! Back to saving the world from… whatever. Ma’am, the exit’s this way please.”

The elevator doors had just closed on the sound of Yuna’s furious, clipped rebuttal when the panel lit up. A direct call from the executive floor. The voice of Mr. Thorne, the operations director, was curt. “Volkov. I want to see you in my office.”

Saskia sighed. Shutting her eyes in frustration.

She arrived at his office few minutes later. The room was filled with monitors showing global time zones. Mr. Thorne was a broad-shouldered man with a military bearing and a gaze that missed almost nothing.

“Sit,” he said, not looking up from a tablet. When she did, he slid the device across the desk. On it was a satellite image of dense woodland, marked with symbols. “We have a high-priority, high-difficulty contract. A pack territory. They’re under sustained, sophisticated attack from a rogue coalition. Their defenses are in tatters. They need a complete overhaul of training, strategy, perimeter security, the works. And they need someone to root out a suspected internal leak.”

Saskia’s blood, which had been flowing with steady, bored indifference, turned to sludge in her veins. She tried her best to keep her expression neutral, but she was failing woefully.

“The client is the Blackwood Pack,” Thorne continued, oblivious to the silent earthquake happening across from him. “In Miami.”

“The Alpha, Cain Sullivan, is signing the contract, so money is no object. It’s a six-month embedded assignment. I’m putting a team on it and I want you to lead the field ops considering you're one of the sane wolves we've got here.”

The name he mentioned hung in the air between them and echoed louder than Yuna’s shrieking had been.

Blackwood is under rogues attack?

The tablet blurred with the tears pooling in her eyes and Thorne was looking at her, but seeing only Saskia Volkov, his top, dispassionate operative. He saw no flicker of the broken girl who had fled that territory. A story he didn't know about.

She quickly blinded the tears away and scrolled through the information on the tablet.

Thorne leaned forward. “It’s a hell of a job. Can you handle it, Volkov?”

She looked from the satellite image and the entire information of her ancestral home—now a warzone—back to her boss’s expectant face.

“Yes, sir.”