The wind howled across the old airfield, carrying the scent of rust and decay.
Slade stood frozen, his hand on his weapon, his eyes fixed on the figure before him. The real Raven. The woman who had been hiding for decades. The woman who had supposedly died years ago.
"That's impossible," Slade said. "Raven is dead. The woman who's been with us is Raven."
The figure stepped closer, her face emerging from the shadows. She was older than Slade expected—late seventies, with white hair and a face lined by decades of struggle. But her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and cold.
"She's a decoy," the real Raven said. "I've been using her for years. She believes she's me. She's been trained to think like me, act like me, even die for me. But she's not me."
Slade's mind raced. Another layer. Anothe
