Shadows of Loyalty

Chapter 28

The safehouse was dimly lit, a single overhead bulb casting a pale yellow glow across the war table covered in maps, files, and surveillance photos. The air smelled of cigarette smoke, gun oil, and tension. Ryan paced, his jaw tight, fury simmering behind his eyes. He stopped abruptly, glaring at the screen where footage played on loop—security cam feed from the bank, timestamped three hours ago.

It showed the aftermath. Ivanov, bloodied and broken, being hauled out in a body bag.

"They took out Ivanov," Ryan growled. "That bastard was a walking wrecking ball."

He clenched his fists, veins bulging against his forearms. His voice dropped to a low snarl. "He was supposed to kill them both."

Alicia sat on the couch a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her face was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—uncertainty. She watched the footage in silence, absorbing every frame.

Ryan turned to her, his tone laced with disbelief. "How the hell did they survive that? Do you understand what this means? We have to move now. Push up everything."

"The boss won’t be happy," Alicia said quietly. "He wanted us to wait another week. Let the dust settle."

Ryan scoffed. "Wait for what? So Quinn and that assassin b***h can regroup and come after us? Every second we wait, we give them time to strike back. We hit first."

Alicia didn’t argue, but her eyes remained locked on the screen. The moment kept replaying in her head—the gunfire in the vault, Sasha lining up the shot, her finger already pulling the trigger, and Quinn...

Quinn had stopped her.

His hand had jerked Sasha’s arm just in time. The bullet meant for her heart grazed her shoulder instead. Alicia could still feel the heat of it, the sting, the confusion.

"He could have let her kill me," she murmured.

Ryan looked up, sharply. "What?"

She blinked, snapping out of the memory. "Nothing."

"Don’t give me that," Ryan said, stepping closer. "You’re wondering why he stopped her. Aren’t you?"

Alicia didn't respond.

"You think he still gives a damn about you?" Ryan hissed. "After everything? After who you are?"

She looked down, staring at the slight bandage on her shoulder.

Ryan circled her like a predator. "Let me remind you, Alicia. Let me remind you who the hell you're fighting for."

His voice lowered, each word deliberate.

"They used your father. You remember that? He was doing the right thing. Exposing corruption. Refusing to stay quiet. And what did the CIA do? What did your country do?"

She didn’t answer.

"They buried him. Set him up. Branded him a traitor. Leaked false documents. He lost everything—his name, his job, his life. And what did that leave you with?"

Alicia’s hands slowly clenched into fists.

"Your mother was blacklisted from every job that required a background check. You were yanked out of private school and tossed into some inner-city hellhole. You two lived on canned food and pity. The government doesn’t support traitors, Alicia. And you? You were the daughter of one."

Her jaw tightened. Her breathing hitched.

Ryan stepped closer, his voice quiet now. "You remember what that did to her?"

Alicia nodded slowly. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. "She killed herself."

Ryan exhaled sharply. "She slit her wrists in the bathtub because she knew she had no future. And she left you alone. Fifteen years old. You buried her yourself. You remember that?"

A tear slipped down Alicia’s cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

"And Quinn?" Ryan said, now bitter. "Quinn works for the same people who ruined your family. He might've had a nice smile, a charming lie, but you were just another mark. You think he gives a damn about you? He chose her over you."

Alicia closed her eyes tightly.

Ryan crouched in front of her, his voice almost gentle now. "We’re so close, Alicia. The list is almost complete. Once we expose them, your father’s name gets cleared. Every secret, every cover-up, every lie they buried—it all comes out. But we need to move now."

She looked at him, pain and fury simmering just beneath the surface.

"We need to kill Quinn," she said quietly.

Ryan nodded. "And Sasha. They’re too dangerous."

Alicia stood up, wiping the tear from her face. Her eyes were cold now, focused. But the doubt hadn’t fully left her.

She turned to the monitor one last time.

Quinn was still alive.

And he had saved her.

Later that evening in the next room, Ryan was alone, organizing files across a table. Names, faces, code names, GPS coordinates. Targets. Everything they'd compiled over the last year.

He glanced toward the closed door where Alicia had disappeared, and for a moment, his stern face softened. He knew she was struggling. He knew the memories hurt. But she needed to stay angry. She needed to stay focused.

Anger kept people loyal. Doubt got them killed.

He returned to his task, pulling a manila folder from the pile. The next name on the list.

Meanwhile, Alicia sat on the edge of her bed in the adjoining room, staring at a photo. A snapshot from Berlin. Her and Quinn, laughing at something stupid. His arm around her shoulders. Her smile real.

She traced her finger over the photo.

"You should've let her shoot me," she whispered.

But deep down, a part of her was glad he didn't.

That part scared her more than anything else.

Ryan sat at the edge of the small bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the cheap hotel carpet. His foot tapped with impatience. He hadn’t slept much. The news of Ivanov’s death still burned in the back of his mind like a splinter he couldn’t dig out. That wasn’t supposed to happen—not to someone like Ivanov. And not at the hands of Quinn and Sasha.

Alicia sat near the window, arms crossed, lost in her own thoughts. Her body was angled toward the street below, but her mind was far away. Probably still thinking about Quinn, Ryan thought bitterly.

Suddenly, his encrypted phone buzzed.

He snatched it from the bedside table and answered without hesitation. “Yeah?”

A distorted voice answered. “In seventy-two hours, there will be a private diplomatic ball in Paris. A man will be there—a former Swiss intelligence broker. He has the final piece of the list. You and Alicia will be attending. Retrieve it. By any means necessary.”

Ryan’s jaw tightened. “Understood.”

The call ended with a soft click.

He slowly turned to Alicia, who looked at him with a tired expression. “What now?”

He stood and walked toward her. “Paris. In three days. Diplomatic ball. Our contact says a Swiss broker will be there. He has the last piece of the list.”

Her brows furrowed. “The last piece?”

Ryan nodded. “If we get it, we’ll finally have everything. Every name. Every hidden file. Every operation the Agency swept under the rug. Every official, politician, or operative who profited off the blood of innocent people.”

Alicia blinked, the weight of it settling in. It was finally coming together. The list that had cost them so much—her family, her childhood, her sense of purpose—it was within reach.

But she hesitated. “And if someone gets in our way?”

Ryan looked at her for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. “We finish it. No more mercy. No more distractions.”

She looked down at her hands, the memory of Quinn stopping Sasha's bullet from killing her playing in her head on repeat. She didn’t understand it. Why did he stop her? Why risk his own life for someone who’d betrayed him?

As if sensing her thoughts, Ryan said, “You’re thinking about him again.”

She didn’t deny it. She felt tears sting her eyes, but she forced them back.

“That list?” Ryan said, stabbing a finger at an invisible point in the air. “That list will prove everything. That your father was a patriot. That the real traitors are still in power. That the entire system is built on blood and lies.”

Alicia clenched her fists. She wanted to believe him. Part of her did. But another part—an annoying, fragile part deep in her chest—was still stuck on Quinn. On the way he looked at her when she revealed the truth. Not with rage. Not with vengeance.

But with pain.

“He didn’t have to stop Sasha,” she whispered.

Ryan scoffed. “He’s weak.”

“No. He’s not.”

Ryan raised an eyebrow.

“He’s… kind,” she admitted. “And stubborn. And maybe too trusting. But weak? No. He’s been through hell and he’s still standing. That’s not weakness.”

Ryan crossed his arms, studying her.

Alicia sighed and sat back in the chair. “I don’t know why he stopped her. Maybe… part of him still cares.”

“That part is going to get him killed.”

There was silence between them. The air was heavy with unsaid things.

After a moment, Alicia glanced back toward Ryan. “What’s the plan for Paris?”

Ryan turned and pulled open a suitcase. Inside was a black folder, thick with photographs, blueprints, and forged documents. “The ball will be hosted by the French Foreign Diplomatic Office. Only international dignitaries and high-value invitees will be allowed in. I’ve secured us fake identities—Mr. and Mrs. Langston. American tech entrepreneurs.”

Alicia flipped through the documents. “And the target?”

Ryan tapped on a picture of a grizzled older man in a tailored white suit, salt-and-pepper beard, and icy blue eyes.

“Marcel Beck. Former Swiss intelligence. He used to run the covert asset management division—basically, he handled offshore accounts for government black operations. When the CIA and MI6 ran money through secret warfronts, he moved it. He knows where the bodies are buried. And now, apparently, he has the missing piece of our puzzle.”

Alicia narrowed her eyes. “How do we get it?”

Ryan shrugged. “Depends. He likes beautiful women and expensive cigars. We can use both.”

Alicia made a face. “Charming.”

Ryan gave a small, humorless smile. “It’s just a dance, Alicia. One last con. Then we blow the doors off this whole thing.”

She stared at the photo a little longer. The weight of it pressed on her chest. One dance. One chance to finish what her father started. To bring down the rot from the inside.

But still…

A part of her wondered what Quinn would think. What he would say if he knew what she and Ryan were about to do. Would he try to stop her again?

Would he still care?

She shoved the thought away.

Later that night, Alicia stepped out onto the hotel balcony. The wind was cool against her skin, the city lights below humming quietly.

Ryan joined her a minute later, sipping from a glass of whiskey. He stood beside her, silent for a while.

Finally, he said, “You know… if things go south in Paris, we don’t get a second shot.”

“I know.”

“I need to know you’re in this with me. All the way.”

Alicia looked up at the sky, the stars barely visible through the haze of the city. “I’m in.”

“Good.”

They stood in silence again, the unspoken tension between them still palpable.

But something was changing in Alicia. A slow, creeping doubt was winding its way through her resolve.

And even though she would never admit it out loud, a name kept echoing in her mind.

Quinn.