Page 42 of Shadow

An hour and twenty minutes later, Daphne sat in a hotel room at the Renegade Inn.

Cheap. Clean. Anonymous.

Queen bed with generic floral bedspread. Laminate desk. TV bolted to the wall. Bathroom with industrial soap and thin towels.

She’d stopped at a gas station and grabbed a frozen meal. Something claiming to be healthy chicken and vegetables.

Now, she nuked it in the room’s microwave for two minutes, and the smell of processed food filled the small space.

She sat at the desk and opened her laptop.

Asher’s files spread across the screen. Organizational charts. Financial records. Surveillance photos.

She ate mechanically. Fork to mouth. Chewed without tasting.

Draven Frost. Roger Rousseau. The Shadow Syndicate. Continental Transport. Neurosync distribution.

Everything checked out so far.

Either he was telling the truth.

Or he was the best liar she’d ever met.

And if she was wrong and he was the mole⁠—

Roger and Destiny would die just like Martha Lintz.

And Daphne’s perfect record would be broken. Everything she’d sacrificed would be for nothing.

She turned away from the window and crawled into bed, fully clothed.

Stared at the ceiling.

Tomorrow.

She closed her eyes but didn’t sleep.

Just replayed Asher’s voice in her head.

I’m tired of failing people.

Yeah.

Her too.

Asher Morrison knew exactly what Draven Frost saw when he looked at him: exhausted FBI agent on the take, smart enough to be useful, isolated enough to be desperate, sitting outside a warehouse at nine p.m. on a Thursday night—Draven had called this one in, not asked—like a bought-and-paid-for lackey.

Four weeks. Twenty-eight days.

Cold November wind cut through his jacket. Sharp. His breath fogged.

The warehouse loomed against dark sky. Former manufacturing plant. Windows broken high up. Metal siding rusted through.

He checked his weapon holstered under his jacket. Loaded.

He crossed the empty lot, gravel crunching under his boots. The wind carried industrial smells. Oil. Rust. Something chemical leaking from abandoned machinery.

The side door stood open, yellow light spilling out.