The storm broke just after midnight, sheets of rain hammering the rooftop above their safehouse. Inside, Orla paced the narrow living area, Jakob curled on the sofa, wide-eyed at the thunder. Stanley sat at the kitchen table, blueprints and photographs spread before him, eyes shadowed with exhaustion and something darker—doubt.
Orla stopped by the window, watching water sluice off the eaves. “We can’t stay here any longer,” she said.
Stanley didn’t look up. “Rina tracks every Lazarus operative in the city. They won’t find this place.”
“But she also said someone from my past was spotted in Prague.” She turned sharply. “Elle corrigé. Mara.”
Stanley’s head snapped up. “Mara Duval? Your handler?”
“Sent to keep an eye on me.” Orla’s voice went low. “She’s the one who taught me to erase my
