Phoebe Lawson: Operation Architect

[Mesut88]

Hello! As some of you know, I've been working on a long-format story here, but I hit a bit of a motivation slump. To get back on track, I decided to start something new—a classic action-packed adventure. I hope you enjoy it, and as always, feedback is appreciated!

1.

The wind howled down the narrow street, whipping through Stockholm's empty sidewalks like an invisible predator. It was a late winter evening, snowless but bitterly cold, with gusts of wind that sliced through even the thickest fabric. Phoebe Lawson stood in the shadows, her back pressed against a brick wall, watching the office building across the street. The glow of streetlights flickered, casting fractured reflections on the glass façade.

Her breath fogged the air, dissolving into the night as she exhaled slowly. She tugged her puffy winter jacket tighter, the oversized layers concealing her body's muscular build—a precaution. Blending in was crucial tonight.

The building itself seemed lifeless. Most of its windows were dark, but appearances could be deceiving. Inside, according to MI6 intel, was a Russian oligarch who had funded political chaos in the UK for years. Her mission was simple: confirm his presence. But judging by the number of guards stationed both outside and in the lobby, there was little doubt the intel was solid.

Her gloved fingers trembled as she pressed them against her thigh. An agent wasn't supposed to show nerves, but tonight, she was fighting to keep them in check. She wasn't sure if it was the cold or her nerves.

First mission. Don't screw it up.

She adjusted her earpiece, a small, almost invisible device tucked under her hood. Her voice, barely above a whisper, felt foreign to her.

"HQ, I'm in position. Awaiting instructions."

A soft crackle followed, then the calm voice of Control filled her ear. "Understood, Lawson. What's your visual?"

Phoebe scanned the building, her eyes flicking from the revolving glass doors to the two guards pacing outside. Their heavy boots crunched against the pavement as they circled the entrance, occasionally exchanging words. A third guard lingered by the side exit, smoking a cigarette. The glowing tip flared briefly before dimming.

"Three guards outside. One by the side exit, two near the front," she murmured. "They're alert. 'Definitely not amateurs."

"Understood. Hold position. We're verifying the target's location."

Hold position. The words gnawed at her, but she bit down on her impatience. This wasn't training anymore, where she could impress instructors by pushing harder, moving faster. In the field, mistakes could be deadly.

She shifted her weight, her boots scuffing lightly against the ground as she leaned further into the shadows. The cold bit through her gloves, numbing her fingers. She rubbed them together, trying to generate warmth.

Her mind raced.

What if the intel's wrong? What if I'm spotted? What if—

A burst of static crackled in her earpiece, followed by Control's measured tone. "Lawson, we can't confirm the target's presence. Oligarch Dmitry Ivanov may not be inside. Can you take yourself into the building without engaging the guards?"

Phoebe's breath caught for a moment. No confirmation. The knot in her stomach tightened, but she didn't hesitate. Her eyes scanned the building, taking in every detail.

Ten stories high. The first-floor entrances were well covered, with guards stationed at key points. No balconies, no fire escapes, and given the freezing temperatures, none of the windows were likely to be open. She exhaled sharply, the fog of her breath vanishing into the night.

The roof. That was the only viable entry.

She glanced toward the metal ladder bolted to the side of the building—her easiest route up. But it was dangerously close to the guard smoking near the side exit. Too close. She clenched her jaw, considering her options.

I'm a strong climber, she reminded herself, thinking back to her intense training at the MI6 academy. But this wasn't a controlled environment. This was real.

Her gaze traced the contours of the building's façade—glass panels, metal frames, and narrow ledges that jutted out just enough to provide a potential climbing path. If she used those as handholds and footholds, she could make her way up to the roof. But it would be risky.

Extremely risky.

If the guard spots me, I'm done. If I slip and fall, it's over.

The wind howled again, tugging at her jacket, as if nature itself were warning her against the climb.

It's my first mission. I can't disappoint HQ.

"I can do it," she whispered into the earpiece. Her breath fogged the air again, vanishing as quickly as her confidence tried to. Control acknowledged her with a quick "Understood, proceed with caution."

She exhaled sharply and took one last look around. The street remained empty aside from the pacing guards. With a determined nod, she slipped behind a nearby bin, crouching down as she unzipped her puffy winter jacket and shrugged it off. The cold hit her instantly, stabbing through the thin fabric of her black turtleneck like a thousand tiny needles.

It's a nice jacket. She folded it quickly and tucked it behind the bin, hoping it would still be there when she returned. Standing back up, she shivered, adjusting the tight fit of her black jeans and making sure her boots were secure. They weren't exactly climbing gear—thick-soled, practical, but stiff in the cold. No matter. She would manage.

Her gaze fell to her wrist. The black Blancpain Fifty Fathoms watch gleamed faintly under the dim streetlights. She barely resisted the urge to smirk. A 20,000-pound luxury watch was the last thing anyone would expect on a girl who had grown up in a crumbling council flat. But when she had finally become a full-fledged MI6 agent, she hadn't been able to resist the splurge. A reward for survival.

10:33 PM. If she wanted to get to the roof alive, she needed to move fast.

She pressed her back against the wall and crept toward the base of the building, pausing only to check her surroundings. The guard by the side exit shifted slightly, stamping his feet against the cold, but he didn't look her way.

Good.

Phoebe scanned the façade again, committing her route to memory. No second chances. She planted her boots against the ledge of the ground-floor window and reached up, fingers gripping the narrow metal frame. The icy surface stung her hands through the gloves, but she didn't let go.

She pulled herself upward, her shoulders and biceps tensing with each movement. The muscles in her arms stood out, working in sync with her back as she climbed, the strain familiar but unforgiving in the cold. Her breath came in controlled puffs, each exhale visible in the frosty night air.

The first few meters were steady, her body moving like a machine: precise, deliberate, and cautious. Her quads tightened, supporting her weight as she braced herself against narrow ledges, searching for the next grip. Below, the guard continued his lazy pacing, oblivious.

The wind lashed at her again, this time harder, pushing against her side. She hugged the wall, her fingers tightening around the window frame. Her core engaged instinctively, stabilizing her as she pressed her chest against the cold surface.

One move at a time. Don't rush.

Her boots scraped against the slick building as she adjusted her position. The higher she climbed, the more her muscles burned—a fiery reminder of the physical demands. Her shoulders throbbed, her grip growing more desperate with every level, but she welcomed the pain. It kept her focused.

Halfway there.

A sudden noise—something metallic clattering against the ground below. Her heart stopped. She pressed herself flat against the wall, chest rising and falling rapidly as adrenaline spiked.

Was it me? Did they hear? She tilted her head slightly, eyes darting downward. The guard near the side exit glanced around briefly before shaking his head and returning to his cigarette. Relief washed over her, but only for a moment.

Keep going.

She reached for the next ledge, her biceps bulging as she hauled herself up. Her fingers found a sturdy grip on the ledge, but frost made the surface slick. She nearly slipped, boots scrambling for a foothold, but her legs—powerful from years of weight training—held firm.

The rooftop was within reach now. One last push.

Her arms trembled under the strain, but she didn't falter. The cold gnawed at her exposed skin, her breath coming in heavier bursts as she summoned every ounce of strength left in her body.

Her boot slipped.

Her breath hitched, heart pounding as she clung to the frame. For a terrifying second, she dangled, her weight pulling against her grip. She gritted her teeth, forearms burning as she willed her body upward. No time to panic.

With a final grunt, she hoisted herself over the edge of the rooftop, collapsing onto the flat surface. She lay there, chest heaving, muscles twitching with residual tension.

She glanced back over the ledge. The guards remained oblivious.

Made it.

Just like she had assumed, there was a door at the rooftop's center. Its rusted frame glinted faintly under the dim glow of the city lights. She crouched down, her breath steady as she pulled out her lock-picking kit. The cold made her fingers stiff, but her muscles—still warm and tense from the climb—kept her movements precise.

Almost there. The soft click of the lock releasing was like music to her ears. She pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, careful to ease it shut behind her without making a sound.

Warm, stale air greeted her as she entered the dimly lit corridor. The flickering overhead lights cast erratic shadows, making the long stretch of worn concrete walls feel claustrophobic. She moved cautiously, each step controlled and deliberate.

Her ears tuned into the faint hum of the building—distant machinery, the occasional drip of water from unseen pipes, and then, more distinctly, the low murmur of two voices. Her pulse quickened.

Rounding a corner, she spotted them: two guards stationed outside a door at the end of the corridor. Dressed in black tactical gear, they stood with the practiced posture of men accustomed to waiting for trouble. One leaned casually against the wall, shifting his weight every few seconds, while the other methodically scanned the hallway.

Phoebe flattened herself against the wall and whispered into her earpiece. "HQ, two guards outside a door. What are my instructions?"

There was a brief pause before Control's voice returned, calm and firm. "You have the green light to engage. Neutralize as needed."

Her breath hitched. Green light. License to kill. Just like James Bond.

Her fingers brushed the cold steel of her pistol, the Sig Sauer P365 holstered at her side. She could draw it, end this in seconds, but the thought of a gunshot echoing through the building tightened her grip on caution. She wasn't here to make noise. She was here to make sure no one knew she was coming.

Her muscles coiled as she moved silently toward the nearest guard. The sound of her boots was muted by the rubber soles, each step measured. Just then, the guard shifted and began walking down the corridor, heading toward a nearby junction point. Phoebe followed closely, her heart thumping with every step.

The guard stopped abruptly, turning his head slightly as if he'd heard something. Phoebe flattened herself against the wall, holding her breath. Her fingers twitched, ready to act. He shook his head, muttering something under his breath before continuing.

Now.

She lunged, her arm locking around the guard's neck before he had a chance to react. Her forearm, solid and unforgiving, pressed against his windpipe as her biceps flexed with controlled power. But he wasn't going down easily.

His elbow jerked backward, slamming into her ribs. Pain shot through her side, but she didn't loosen her grip. He thrashed violently, his boots scraping against the floor as he fought to throw her off. Her muscles burned as she tightened her hold, using every ounce of strength she had.

Come on, come on.

The guard twisted, managing to shift his weight and push her back against the wall. For a split second, Phoebe's grip slipped, but she quickly recovered, slamming her knee into the back of his leg. He staggered, the sudden loss of balance giving her the opening she needed.

She gritted her teeth, her arms trembling with effort as she squeezed harder, cutting off his airflow. His muffled gasps grew weaker, his fingers clawing uselessly at her arm. Sweat beaded on her forehead, mixing with the cold remnants of the night air.

Finally, he slumped in her grasp, his body going limp. She lowered him to the ground, chest heaving, her arms shaking from the strain. A quick check of his pulse confirmed he was dead.

One down.

She didn't give herself time to relax. Her gaze flicked toward the corner, where the second guard would be standing, hopefully unaware of the struggle that had just taken place only moments ago.

One to go.

Phoebe crept toward the second guard, her eyes locked on the stationary figure standing rigidly by the door. His posture was too perfect, too disciplined—he wasn't going to be easy. She crouched low, tucking herself into a shadowed corner, her mind racing.

Shit. He's not moving.

Her breath hitched, and for a split second, panic fluttered in her chest. But she squashed it. Think. Her fingers brushed against the multitool clipped to her jeans pocket. She pulled it free, weighing it briefly in her hand before making her decision.

She flicked her wrist and tossed the tool a few meters down the corridor, just enough for the clink of metal to echo off the concrete walls. The noise wasn't loud, but it was enough.

Her heart pounded as she heard the guard shift. His boots scraped against the floor, and she held her breath. Seconds stretched endlessly as she waited, her muscles tense, ready to explode into action.

He was walking toward her.

Her fingers curled into fists, and she crouched lower, every instinct screaming at her to strike. The guard's shadow grew larger as he neared the corner.

Now or never.

As soon as he stepped into her reach, she lunged upward, wrapping her arms around his knees and lifting him clean off the floor. His startled grunt barely escaped before she slammed him down onto the concrete with all her strength. The impact reverberated through her arms and chest, but the noise wasn't as muted as she'd hoped. Her breath hitched as fear sliced through her mind.

Did anyone hear that?

The guard writhed beneath her, his elbow catching her shoulder as he tried to roll free. She grunted, twisting her body to pin him down, but he was stronger than she expected. His fist connected with her ribs, knocking the air out of her lungs. Her vision blurred for a moment as pain radiated through her torso.

Focus.

She snarled, shifting her weight and driving her knee into his side. He bucked again, but she used the momentum to grab his head and push it between her thighs. Her quads flexed, muscles bulging as she locked him in place.

He thrashed, his fists pounding against her thighs in desperation. Panic flashed across her mind, but she gritted her teeth, pouring every ounce of strength into the hold. Her legs felt like steel traps, constricting tighter with each passing second.

The punches grew weaker. His movements slowed.

And then, finally, he went limp.

Phoebe released him, her thighs burning as she rolled onto her back, gasping for air. Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession, and for a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling.

The fear was still there, lurking beneath the surface, but she forced it down. She had done it.

No time to waste.

She sat up, her muscles screaming in protest, and checked the guard's pulse. He was dead.
Two down.

Phoebe wiped her brow with the back of her hand, her breath coming fast as she crouched over the second guard. Her fingers moved efficiently, patting down his tactical vest until they found what she needed—a ring of keys hooked to a belt loop. She unclipped them, the cold metal biting into her palm, and stood.

Her boots pressed lightly against the concrete as she moved toward the door the two men had guarded. Each step was controlled, her breathing measured despite the adrenaline surging through her veins. She slid the key into the lock and turned it. The faint click sounded louder than it should in the silence, and she paused, straining to hear any movement inside.

Nothing.

She exhaled and pushed the door open.

Warm air greeted her, carrying the scent of stale coffee, ink, and something metallic she couldn't place. The room wasn't large, but its cluttered interior made it feel cramped—file cabinets shoved against the walls, papers scattered across a central desk illuminated by the flickering glow of a desk lamp. Shadows danced erratically, distorting the room's edges.

Then she realized her mistakes.

Firstly, she hadn't contacted HQ for a status update or further instructions.

Secondly, her pistol remained holstered at her side—a rookie mistake that made her stomach twist with self-loathing.

Thirdly, and most seriously—she hadn't mentally prepared for what would happen inside.

Her eyes locked on the man standing near the far wall.

Dmitry Ivanov.

The 50-something-year-old oligarch matched every detail she'd memorized from the mission briefing: graying hair slicked back, sharp features hardened by decades of survival in a cutthroat world, and the cold, calculating gaze of a man who never hesitated. But the photographs hadn't conveyed the sheer intensity radiating from him now as his eyes pinned her like prey.

In his hands were two things.

A white plastic device, similar to a remote controller, with a large red button—an emergency trigger. In his other hand, a handgun.

The barrel lifted.

The shot rang out.

Phoebe barely had time to process the flash of the muzzle before her body launched itself sideways. She hit the floor hard, her shoulder absorbing the brunt of the impact as she slid across the polished surface. Her hip jarred against the floor, sending a jolt of pain up her spine, but she gritted her teeth and kept moving.

The couch saved her.

She rolled behind it, landing on her side as her breath came in ragged bursts. The leather was cold against her back, but she didn't dare shift. The couch offered visual cover, but she knew it wouldn't stop another bullet if Ivanov fired again.

Her fingers flew to her earpiece. "HQ, I'm under fire—requesting immediate backup."

Static hissed back at her.

No connection.

She pressed the earpiece harder against her ear, tapping it twice as though that would magically bring the signal back. The silence was deafening.

Shit.

Her ribs throbbed, each breath a reminder of the hard landing. She flexed her fingers around the Sig Sauer, still holstered at her side, and cursed herself again for the delay. Slowly, she unlatched it, the cool steel fitting perfectly into her palm.
She peeked around the edge of the couch.

Ivanov was still there, pacing slowly now, his gun raised, his movements controlled. He muttered something in Russian, too quiet for her to catch, but the tone was clear—he wasn't panicking. He was hunting.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she ducked back behind the couch.

Think. Fast.

Her gaze flicked to the desk in the center of the room, the papers rustling slightly in the draft from the open door. One of the shelves to her left had toppled slightly, its contents spilling onto the floor. Distraction or escape? Neither option felt promising, but she couldn't afford indecision.

She tightened her grip on the pistol, her breath slowing as she mentally replayed her training.

Ivanov's footsteps grew louder. Closer.

Phoebe's grip on the Sig Sauer tightened. She steadied her breathing, forcing the tremor in her fingers to stop. Shooting Ivanov wasn't an option—she didn't have authority for that. HQ's orders had been clear: confirm his presence, report back, and await further instructions. But that didn't matter now.

He had a gun. She had to act.

She counted silently in her head. One... two... three.

She stepped out from behind the couch, her arms steady as she raised the pistol and fired twice. The muzzle flashes lit the dim room for an instant, and the sharp cracks of the shots echoed off the walls. The bullets hit the wall just past Ivanov, close enough to make him flinch and instinctively jerk backward. His aim faltered.

That was all she needed.

She pushed off hard, sprinting toward him. Her boots hit the floor with heavy, deliberate thuds, and her pulse drummed in her ears. The distance closed in a blur, and she launched herself at him with everything she had. Please don't react in time.

Her body collided with his like a wrecking ball, all 86 kilos of muscle-driven force slamming into him. The sheer momentum drove him off his feet and sent him crashing to the floor beneath her, the impact rattling the air from his lungs in a strained grunt. She didn't hesitate—her weight pinned him down, preventing any chance of retaliation.

Her right fist shot forward.

It connected with his face in a brutal arc, her knuckles slamming into his cheek with a sickening crack. His head snapped to the side, and his body jerked once beneath her.

Then he went still.

Her breath hitched. She shifted her position slightly, her knee pressing into his chest as she checked his pulse.

Nothing.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled them back. The room around her blurred for a second before her mind snapped back into focus. He's dead. I killed him. Whether it was the impact of the tackle, the punch, or both, didn't matter. The damage was done.

Shit.

There wasn't time to feel guilty, to panic, or even process it. The noise she'd made wouldn't go unnoticed for long, and the two guards she'd taken down earlier were unlikely to be the only ones patrolling this floor.
She strained her ears. The faint echo of footsteps grew louder, steady and fast—multiple people closing in.

I'm running out of time.

She scanned the room quickly. The hallway wasn't an option. Returning to the roof meant going back the way she came, through the corridor filled with approaching guards. I won't make it.

Her eyes darted to the window. The glowing lights of Stockholm stretched out beyond the glass, but her focus wasn't on the view. It was on the 10-story drop, a sheer 30 meters to the street below.

Her breath quickened. No good options left.


The footsteps were close now, pounding against the floor like a countdown to disaster. Her eyes darted to the window. No good options left. Just the one that might kill me.

She sprinted toward the glass, her boots pounding against the floor, ribs screaming with each step. There was no handle—nothing to push or pull. No time to think. She twisted her hips, planted her foot, and drove the sole of her boot into the center of the window with all her weight behind it. The glass shattered outward in an explosion of jagged shards, scattering into the night.

The freezing wind rushed in like a slap, cutting across her skin and pulling at her hair. She leaned out of the opening, glancing down.

Her breath caught.

The street below was impossibly far—ten stories down, a sheer 30-meter drop to unforgiving concrete. She felt the vertigo creep into her chest, but she forced herself to steady her breathing. Jumping was suicide. Climbing down would take too long.

No jet packs. No parachutes. This wasn't a James Bond film.

Then she saw it: a water drainage pipe bolted to the side of the building, just to the left of the window. The metal was worn, rust darkening the edges where it met the wall. It didn't look secure, but there wasn't time to hesitate.

She stepped through the broken window, the crunch of glass beneath her boots barely registering as her mind raced. The wind howled past her, tearing at her clothes as she gripped the window frame with white-knuckled intensity.

From inside the room, she heard the burst of angry shouting in Russian—panic, commands, chaos.

Her fingers tightened on the frame, nails digging into the cold steel. She stretched her arm toward the pipe, her muscles straining as she leaned farther out. Her fingers wrapped around the frigid metal, and the pipe gave a slight tremor under her grip. Not secure. But it doesn't matter.

With a final breath, she hooked her arm and legs around the pipe, locking her body in place as best she could. The cold metal bit into her exposed skin, but the pain was distant. All that mattered was getting down.

She began lowering herself, inch by inch, her legs wrapped tightly around the pipe, her hands gripping so hard that her forearms ached. The pipe groaned under her weight, bolts creaking as if threatening to tear free. Her breath came fast, fogging the air around her.

The city lights blurred in her peripheral vision as she picked up speed. The friction against her gloves turned brutal, heat building against her palms until she could feel the burn searing through the leather. She let out a sharp breath between clenched teeth but didn't stop. She couldn't stop.

She loosened her grip slightly, letting gravity pull her down faster.

The pipe trembled.

The wind howled louder, and she prayed the guards weren't waiting for her at the bottom. They're probably still rushing upstairs. She repeated it like a mantra. They're not outside. They can't be outside.

But she needed to move faster.

She eased her tension on the pipe, letting herself glide downward at a dangerous speed. The heat against her hands turned to fire, her palms screaming with friction burns. She winced, but there was no time to care. The ground was rushing toward her, and if she didn't slow down—

She gripped the pipe with all her strength, muscles contracting violently as she tried to brake. The sudden force jolted her arms, and her thighs burned as she squeezed harder to maintain control. The pain was white-hot, but it worked. Her speed slowed just enough.

When she was a few meters above the ground, she let go.

She hit the pavement with a bone-jarring thud, her boots slamming into the concrete. The force drove up through her legs, but she stayed upright, knees bending to absorb the impact. The shock left her gasping, but she was alive. On her feet.

Move.

Then the first shot cracked through the night, followed by another. Bullets rained down from the shattered 10th-floor window less than 15 seconds behind her escape. Muzzle flashes lit the darkness above, and the unmistakable whistle of bullets sliced through the air around her.

She ran.


[Mesut88]

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[Mesut88]

2.



Agent Phoebe Lawson stared at her image in the bathroom mirror. That particular mirror was located inside the SiS building, MI6's headquarters. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a cold, sterile glow across the spotless glass. The reflection offered no softness, no forgiving shadows—just her, exactly as she was. She carefully studied her image.

The makeup was as flawless as it had been a few hours ago when she had left her apartment. Subtle but precise, just enough to sharpen her features and highlight the seriousness in her eyes. Her navy-blue tailored suit looked good, its clean lines enhancing her professional appearance without drawing attention to anything specific. She adjusted the cuffs slightly, smoothing the material under her fingers.

For some reason, her thoughts shifted toward her mum.

The person staring back in the mirror didn't have much in common, especially appearance-wise, with the small, pale alcoholic woman that was her mother. Unlike her mum, she was tall—175 centimetres to be exact. And the expensive high heels with red soles she wore now made her as tall as most of her male colleagues. Her shoulders were broad, tapering naturally to a narrow waist, and the suit fit her brawny frame perfectly, projecting both refinement and strength.

Her build and her skin tone came from her father. A huge Nigerian man, her mum had said. They had spent a single night together when he was visiting London. She hadn't even known his name. That night had led to Phoebe. Her mum had no idea where he lived or any way of finding him.

Phoebe glanced at her expensive watch. It was time to go.

To her first mission reporting.

She was nervous.

The thought sat heavy in her chest, pulsing with every beat of her heart as she stepped into the corridor outside Section Chief Anthony Whitaker's office. The air felt cold and formal, just like every corner of SiS. Even the silence seemed deliberate, the kind that weighed down on you, as if the building itself was waiting for something to happen.

Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor, the sound crisp and precise. She glanced briefly at the brass nameplate mounted beside the impressive oak door before her gaze shifted to the woman seated at the nearby desk.

Rebecca Greene, Whitaker's secretary, was a beautiful woman in her early forties, with an elegance that seemed effortless. Her auburn hair was swept back into a sleek chignon, and her tailored white blouse and fitted navy skirt added to her composed, professional look. She wore minimal makeup, just enough to highlight her high cheekbones and striking hazel eyes.

Greene looked up, her gaze calm but aware, and offered a small, polite smile. "He's ready for you," she said, her voice warm but measured.

Phoebe returned a brief nod. "Thanks."

Her heels clicked again as she turned toward the heavy door. She paused for a moment, took a breath, and let her fingers brush over the cool handle.

Then, she pushed it open.

The room was large and minimalist. The walls were painted a muted grey, lined with a few shelves of books and carefully chosen art pieces. A single window let in the muted daylight of London's overcast sky, and at the centre of it all sat Whitaker behind a mahogany desk polished to a mirror finish. He was a man in his early fifties, with thinning dark hair and piercing grey eyes that could strip the confidence off anyone who wasn't prepared. His suit was impeccably tailored, his posture rigid.

He didn't invite her to sit.

Phoebe stopped behind the chair opposite him, standing tall, her hand resting lightly on her side, fingers brushing the edge of her jacket. She kept her breathing even as her nerves clawed at her chest.

Whitaker didn't look up immediately. His eyes flicked across a printed document on his desk, the veins in his temple pulsing slightly. When he finally raised his gaze, the storm hit.

"Bloody hell, Lawson." His voice was sharp, like the crack of a whip. "Ivanov is dead. You didn't have the authority for that!"

Phoebe's jaw tightened.

"The press is all over this." He slapped a hand against the document, causing a slight flutter of the papers. "Every major outlet in Europe is writing about the bloody shooting and the tenth-floor smashed window."

Her pulse hammered, but she didn't flinch.

I could argue this. She knew she could. I lost contact with HQ. If they had heard my situation, they would have authorised the kill. There was no other option—he had a gun, and I wasn't walking out of there alive without neutralising him.

But she stayed silent.

Whitaker stood abruptly, pushing his chair back slightly. His face reddened, the colour creeping into his neck as he leaned forward on the desk, palms flat against its polished surface. "I had to inform the minister about this incident, and he wasn't happy. Not one fucking bit."

Phoebe clenched her hand tighter at her side.

Whitaker's voice rose, practically shaking the walls. "I'm seriously starting to regret my decision to bring you in from the academy and make you an agent. You can't fucking do things like this on your first mission. Or ever."

The veins in his temple bulged further as he stared her down. His breathing was heavier now, and the room seemed to vibrate with the tension between them.

Phoebe stayed where she was, steady on her feet, eyes locked on his. Inside, her thoughts swirled like a storm.

She knew she shouldn't defend herself. But she also knew she had done the right thing. The moment played over in her mind—the shattered glass, Ivanov's gun, the chaos of those final seconds. There had been no choice. She hadn't expected this sort of outburst. Her first mission had been successful. The target was neutralised, and she had walked away alive.

Whitaker didn't see it that way.

He was still fuming, his voice sharp enough to cut through stone. "Now, get away from my eyes. At least now I know I need to be really careful when selecting you for missions."

Phoebe's jaw clenched, but she didn't let it show. She nodded once, turned sharply on her heel, and headed for the door. Her insides fumed, every word he had thrown at her swirling in her chest like fuel to a fire. But she kept her steps steady, composed.

Outside the office, she met the secretary's gaze and gave a brief nod. On a whim, she added, "You're looking very beautiful today, Ms. Greene."

Greene blinked, surprised, before a faint blush rose to her cheeks. "Thank you, Agent Lawson," she replied, her voice soft.

As Phoebe walked away, the click of her heels echoed down the corridor, steady and deliberate. She allowed herself a small, fleeting thought: Now that was something James Bond would do.

The tension in her chest began to loosen, just slightly, with each step.

By 6 p.m., she stood outside the SiS building, the February air biting at her cheeks and slipping beneath the collar of her cashmere coat. Her breath fogged in front of her, the glow of the streetlights softening the hard lines of the building's exterior. Her apartment in Lambeth wasn't far—a short walk through London's evening chill, if she had chosen it. But her thoughts drifted back to her mum, dragging her attention away like an unwelcome tether to the past.

She raised her arm and flagged down a cab instead.

The ride was silent, aside from the rhythmic hum of the tyres over uneven roads. The driver didn't ask questions, and she didn't volunteer any conversation. As they crossed into the less fortunate parts of the city, the streets darkened, the air thick with neglect and the kind of wear that couldn't be fixed with simple maintenance. Phoebe stared out the window at the dull, flickering streetlights and cracked pavements, her fingers unconsciously tightening around her purse.

When the cab pulled up in front of the block of flats, she paid without waiting for change and stepped out. The building loomed before her, ugly and scarred from years of poor upkeep. The peeling paint clung stubbornly to the exterior walls, and broken windows had been covered with mismatched boards and duct tape. Trash bags sat by the entrance, their contents spilling onto the pavement.

It had been over eight years since she had letft the small, two-bedroom council flat she had shared with her mum. But the place hadn't changed. If anything, it had gotten worse.

The elevator was, of course, out of order—just like she remembered. She sighed and adjusted her purse before starting the climb up the graffiti-covered staircase. The air inside the stairwell smelled of damp concrete and cigarette smoke, with a faint hint of urine lingering at the edges. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered sporadically, casting uneven shadows as she ascended.

On the fourth floor, a tired-looking woman carrying a crying baby passed her. Phoebe gave her a brief nod, which wasn't returned. She didn't recognise her, but that wasn't surprising. People came and went in council flats like this all the time. Still, as Phoebe adjusted the hem of her tailored suit and shifted her weight in her high heels, she felt out of place—like she was visiting a life that no longer belonged to her. The cashmere coat only made it worse, its softness contrasting sharply with the rough surroundings.

When she reached her mum's door, she took out her keys. There was no point knocking; her mum rarely answered unless she was expecting someone. The metal key clicked loudly in the lock, and as she pushed the door open, the familiar stench hit her.

Rotting food. Cigarette smoke. Alcohol. It wrapped around her like a heavy, suffocating blanket.
Her stomach twisted as she stepped inside. She had only moved back to London a few months ago, and despite the times she had come over to clean, the flat had returned to its disgraceful state with alarming speed.

Phoebe found her mum sprawled on the couch, passed out. One arm dangled off the side, the other rested awkwardly over her head. Her small frame—20 centimetres shorter than Phoebe's—meant she fit easily on the stained, sagging cushions, no matter how carelessly she had collapsed. An open vodka bottle sat on the nearby table, its contents half gone. Beside it, an overflowing ashtray exhaled the stale stench of cigarettes into the room.

Phoebe sighed. She hated seeing her mum like this. The rise and fall of her shallow breathing reminded her of a time when she would anxiously watch, unsure if her mum would ever wake up. She knew better now. Alcoholism was a disease, and that knowledge had tempered some of her anger—but it didn't make the sight any easier to bear.

Her eyes scanned the room: stained carpets, empty cans on the floor, dirty plates stacked precariously on the armrest of the chair. It was a mess, but not an unfamiliar one. Phoebe rolled up the sleeves of her tailored suit, slipped off her heels, and got to work.

She cleaned efficiently, with practiced movements that came from years of experience. By the time she was seven, she had already known that if she wanted to live in a clean home, she'd have to be the one to make it so. Her little hands had scrubbed away the grime that seemed to spread endlessly—dishes, laundry, floors. It had all been her responsibility.

And it had stayed that way until that night.

Phoebe pushed the memory aside, her focus sharpening as she cleared the coffee table of cigarette butts and discarded takeaway boxes. The smell of bleach soon filled the room as she wiped down the surfaces, scrubbing away as much of the filth as she could in one sitting. The sofa's stains were permanent, but at least she could make sure nothing stuck to her fingers when she touched it.

When she finally moved into the kitchen, disappointment churned in her chest. She checked the cabinets—empty. The fridge—just as bad, save for a nearly expired carton of milk and a bottle of ketchup. Phoebe leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. The last time she had visited, she had handed her mum several hundred pounds, insisting it be used for food. But she should've known better. The money had clearly gone straight to liquor and cigarettes.

This time, she wouldn't make the same mistake.

Without waking her mum, Phoebe grabbed her coat, slipped her heels back on, and quietly left the flat, locking the door behind her. The cool evening air hit her face as she made her way down the graffiti-covered staircase, heading toward the nearest grocery store.

After she had returned from the store, Phoebe stood by the sofa, a grocery bag still clutched in one hand, and looked down at her mum. The light from the overhead bulb flickered faintly, casting her mum's sleeping face in uneven shadows. Her chest rose and fell in slow, shallow breaths, the vodka bottle still tipped on its side next to her.

Phoebe's thoughts drifted to that night—over eight years ago. The last night she had spent in this flat.

She had been 14 years old at the time. Already 175 centimetres tall, towering over most of her classmates, and in almost every way, she had been different from her mum, Lucy Lawson.

That evening had been like any other school night. She had cooked herself dinner with what little she could find in the cabinets—barely enough to fill her plate—then cleaned the dishes, done her homework, and gone to bed early. Her routine was as rigid as it was necessary. Staying sharp at school was her way out of this place. Her mum, as usual, wasn't home. Probably in a pub or drinking at some mate's flat.

She had been halfway through a restless sleep when the screaming started.

It came from the kitchen. Her mother's voice.

Phoebe shot out of bed without thinking. Barefoot, she darted through the dim, cluttered hallway, her heart pounding like a war drum. When she reached the kitchen, the scene stopped her dead in her tracks.

Her mum was pinned against the wall, crying and struggling, as a large, ugly man reeked of booze and violence. He was drunken and wild-eyed, his hand raised for another hit. His fist connected with Lucy's side, doubling her over as she sobbed. The man's other hand gripped her shoulder to keep her from falling.

Without hesitation, Phoebe moved.

She shoved herself between them, arms spread, instinct taking over. "Get off her!"

The man's bloodshot eyes flicked down to her. He barely hesitated before swinging. The punch caught Phoebe clean on the cheek. Pain shot through her face, but it was the words that followed that made her insides twist with fury. Disgusting, racist slurs that she forced herself to ignore, words she'd heard before and had always pushed aside.

Her legs wobbled but didn't give out. Her vision blurred for a moment, and she tasted copper on her tongue. That should have been enough to break a 14-year-old girl.

But Phoebe wasn't an ordinary 14-year-old.

She was tall. Her limbs, though slim, carried wiry strength—enough to leave boys bruised during PE lessons and enough to make anyone who underestimated her regret it. She clenched her fists.

With a cry, she threw her first punch, aiming straight for the man's nose. She felt the crunch beneath her knuckles, but it wasn't enough to stop him. He roared with anger and slammed his fist into her stomach.

The blow was brutal, but her core tightened instinctively. Her abs weren't the carved-out eight-pack she had now, at 22, but they had already developed a resilience that saved her. She staggered back, the air leaving her lungs in a desperate gasp, but she didn't fall. She couldn't fall. Her mum needed her.

She swung again, this time landing two quick punches to his jaw. His head snapped to the side, and for a second, she thought she had him. But his massive fist came down like a hammer on her shoulder, nearly knocking her to the floor. Pain radiated from her collarbone, but she stayed upright.

He was slowing down. She could feel it. But so was she.

Her breaths came in ragged bursts, and her vision swam. She wiped sweat and blood from her lip and gathered everything she had left. This was her last chance.

With a grunt, she drove her knee into his stomach. Hard.

The force of it sent him stumbling backward. He tripped, arms flailing, and crashed into the kitchen counter. His head hit the edge with a sickening thud. He slumped to the floor, motionless.

Phoebe stood there, chest heaving, her legs trembling beneath her. She winced as she touched her side, already bruising, but she forced herself to focus. She dropped to her mum's side and shook her gently.

"Mum? Mum, wake up."

No response. Her face was swollen, her breathing faint. Panic spread through Phoebe like wildfire. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed the phone.

"999," she whispered as she dialed, her voice barely audible through the tears she hadn't realised were falling.

She hadn't known then that it would be years before she saw her mum again.

Now, standing in the dingy flat, Phoebe looked down at the woman sprawled across the sofa. Her mum's face had aged far beyond her years, the lines deeper, the skin sallow. But despite all the flaws, despite the years of pain and distance, Lucy Lawson was still her mum.

And warmth spread through Phoebe's chest—unexpected, but real.

[Wookey]

K+++. Unexpected tenderness

[Mesut88]

Thanks Wookey! Here's chapter 3, and as always - feedback is appreciated.

3. 



Left jab. Right jab. A powerful left hook.

She stepped back, her muscles coiled like springs, and threw two quick left jabs. Her right hand followed instantly, palm angled down as she executed a precise down parry, the movement fluid, instinctive. A moment's pause, then a flurry of fast jabs, her knuckles snapping forward like pistons before delivering a thunderous rear uppercut that cracked through the air.

The impact rippled through the heavy bag, sending it swinging violently on its chain. The metallic clink echoed in the gym's empty space. Phoebe lowered her fists, breathing heavily as she wiped a line of sweat from her eyes with the back of her glove.

For a moment, the world was just the rhythmic thudding of her pulse and the dull ache in her forearms.

Her stance relaxed slightly, but her muscles still hummed with tension—like an engine that refused to fully shut off. The combination had been sharp, each strike deliberate and loaded with power. Just the way she liked it.

Not a real fight. Just training. The thought lingered as she exhaled slowly, releasing the tight knot that had formed in her chest.

It had been a long time since she'd found anyone willing to spar with her competitively. Most people didn't last long once they felt the sting of her punches. And it was somewhat understandable—her strikes were heavy, her technique honed from years of relentless training.

It had been three weeks since Stockholm. Since Whitaker's outburst. And in those three weeks, it had been nothing but desk duty—hours of tedious briefings, paperwork, and the occasional "observation" assignment that left her feeling like an intern instead of a field agent.

The confinement gnawed at her, each passing day fueling the restless energy she couldn't shake. Luckily, no one seemed to care that she spent at least a third of her working hours down here in the basement of the SiS building, rotating between the gym and the shooting range. Mostly the gym.

She threw another jab at the bag—sharp and full of frustration—before stepping back, breathing heavily. Her fists clenched momentarily, but the sound of a phone ping cut through the quiet hum of the gym.

Her phone. The one that only few people had the number to.

Phoebe peeled off her gloves, the leather sticking slightly to her damp skin, and wiped her palms against her black leggings before reaching for the device. A message glowed on the screen.

My office. 10 minutes.

—Whitaker

Shit.

Her pulse spiked as she glanced at the time. Tight. She tossed her gloves aside and sprinted toward the locker room, her boots thudding lightly against the floor.

The sweaty clothes disappeared quickly, peeled off in haste as she stepped beneath the freezing jet of water in the communal shower. The ice-cold spray hit her like a slap, shocking her system and making her muscles tense momentarily before she forced herself to relax. Thirty seconds. That's all you're getting, she thought, running her fingers through her damp hair as the water streamed down her body.

She shut the water off, grabbed a towel, and wiped herself down efficiently, her mind already racing through possibilities. Why now? What did Whitaker want?

Her reflection stared back from the mirror above the sink—wet, chiseled, and composed, but only barely. She pushed the thought aside and opened her locker.

Clean underwear, a fresh dress shirt, and the tailored dark grey suit she had worn earlier that day were donned quickly. The familiar, comfortable weight of her Blancpain watch settled around her wrist. She pressed the nozzle of her perfume once, the luxurious scent mixing briefly with the residual scent of sweat and shower steam.

Then, without missing a beat, she stepped into her high heels and bolted out of the locker room. Her long strides were purposeful, the echo of her heels clinking sharply against the corridor's polished floors as she raced toward Whitaker's office.

Don't be late. Don't give him another reason.

Outside the office, Phoebe nodded briefly to Ms. Greene, who returned the gesture with her usual composed, polite smile. Without missing a beat, Phoebe stepped inside.

Whitaker was seated behind his polished mahogany desk, the surface free of the chaotic stack of papers that had been there during her last visit. His gaze met hers briefly before he nodded toward the chair opposite him.

"Sit down, Lawson."

That must be a good sign, Phoebe thought as she crossed the room. No immediate yelling. Maybe things had cooled down. She still felt a little out of breath from her sprint, but she pushed the sensation aside as she sat down, adjusting her posture to remain sharp and alert.

"Thank you, sir," she said, her voice steady despite the slight thrum of adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

Whitaker leaned back slightly, his hands resting together in front of him. His demeanor was notably different from the last time she had been in this office. His face wasn't red with frustration; his tone wasn't razor-sharp. He studied her for a moment, as if weighing what to say.

"As you know, Lawson, most of our resources over the past year and a half have been directed toward the Architect case."

Of course, she knew that. Every agent in the building knew about the Architect. A shadowy figure that had become the number one priority of intelligence agencies across Europe. His real identity remained unknown, and that was part of what made him so dangerous.

The name wasn't just a codename—it was a reflection of his reputation. The Architect was known for being meticulous, methodical, and nearly impossible to track. He had emerged seemingly from nowhere, a man with no past, no visible weaknesses. What they did know was terrifying: he had been financing and orchestrating far-right extremist organizations across Europe and the UK. Groups that had previously been disorganized and relatively harmless had turned into coordinated, violent cells capable of sophisticated terror attacks.

Phoebe's mind briefly flicked through the classified reports she had read. Dozens of incidents over the past few years, each one planned and executed with military precision. Bombings. Mass shootings. Political assassinations. The common thread between them was chilling: they were perfectly timed and disturbingly effective.

The Architect hadn't just funded chaos—he had designed it.

Whitaker exhaled and leaned forward slightly.

"And as you may know, we are still struggling with it. We have been turning all the stones. And we'll keep doing that until we finally can get closer to him."

Phoebe's heart rate picked up, a steady thump against her ribs. Finally. This wasn't another routine desk duty briefing—this sounded like action. Whitaker opened a drawer, the metallic slide punctuated by the faint rustle of papers. He pulled out a thin folder, its cover marked with the bold insignia of classified material. Without ceremony, he tossed it across the desk. It slid smoothly and stopped just in front of her.

"This is something we recently received from our American friends," he said, his tone measured. "His name is Eli Cohen. The CIA believes The Architect has used him as a hitman—at least once, possibly more. But their intel is thin, and we haven't been able to confirm any of it. That's why, officially, this isn't a big priority for us." He leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping against the polished wood. "But unofficially, we still want to bring him in for interrogation."

Whitaker paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her. Phoebe kept her posture firm, her fingers resting lightly on the edges of the folder, even though her instincts begged her to flip it open right there and then.

"I don't have any other available field agents at the moment, Lawson. Or really any other resources for this. So I need you to bring this man here. In one piece. Alive." He let the words settle for a moment, then leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Do you think you can do that? After Stockholm, I feel like I need to make sure you clearly understand the mission."

A flicker of heat rose in Phoebe's chest, anger bubbling just below the surface. Stockholm hadn't been her fault. She could argue that ten different ways if he let her, but this wasn't the moment. She forced the reaction down, suppressing the urge to clench her jaw. Her voice was calm, measured.

"Of course, sir," she replied, her gaze steady and unwavering.

Whitaker stood, the leather of his chair creaking slightly as he rounded the desk and stopped beside her. His finger jabbed firmly against her shoulder, the suit fabric taut over the dense muscle beneath. Her deltoid barely gave under the pressure—round, hard, and unyielding. The jab wasn't just a gesture; it felt like a deliberate test, one Phoebe didn't flinch from.

"I really do mean it, Lawson," he said, his voice low but firm. "Don't fuck this thing up."

"Yes, sir," she said, her voice cool as ice.

"Dismissed."

Phoebe stood and gave him a short nod before turning sharply on her heel. As she walked out of the office, her fingers gripped the folder a little tighter than necessary. Her heels clicked against the floor as she made her way toward her desk on the second floor, her mind already racing.
Eli Cohen. The name repeated itself like a drumbeat in her head. A hitman with ties to The Architect. The stakes were clear. Bring him in, interrogate him, and maybe—just maybe—this could be the lead MI6 needed to break the Architect case wide open.

But there was no room for mistakes. Not this time.

Her pace quickened as she reached her desk. She dropped into her chair, flipped the folder open, and began scanning its contents.

It took about five minutes for Phoebe's initial eagerness to drain away, replaced by a growing sense of disbelief.

The mission seemed insane.

Eli Cohen, 38 years old, was born in Tel Aviv. His file read like the blueprint for the world's most dangerous operative. He had served three years in the Israeli army, finishing as a staff sergeant for an elite combat unit specializing in reconnaissance and covert operations. After that, he joined the French Foreign Legion, where he spent six years as a sniper for a paratrooper commando unit.

Then came the seven years with Mossad as a special agent, where his operational focus remained classified. Whatever he had done, it had been enough to make him a ghost after leaving their service. For the past five years, Cohen had worked as a freelancer—an independent contractor specializing in clean, high-profile assassinations.

Phoebe leaned back in her chair and rubbed the bridge of her nose. This wasn't just a dangerous target. This was a target who could potentially predict her every move.

He must be one of the most lethal and dangerous people on the planet, she thought grimly, scanning the folder again. The sheer breadth of his combat experience felt suffocating. And she was expected to bring him in. Alone. No backup. No tactical team waiting to intervene.
It sounded like a suicide mission.

She turned another page, her eyes narrowing as she examined the section on Cohen's current residence.

According to the CIA, Cohen owned a high-security villa just outside Nice, France. Perched on the hillside overlooking the Mediterranean, it was surrounded by lush vegetation and high stone walls. The villa itself was fitted with state-of-the-art surveillance systems, motion sensors, and a perimeter that was reportedly guarded 24/7.

The words on the page seemed to taunt her.

Absolutely impossible to get inside.

In addition to the CIA's intel, the folder included a few other essentials—one of which made Phoebe raise an eyebrow: a French passport with her picture but belonging to Nadine Diarra. The name sounded convincingly French-African, which fit her cover well enough. There were also two first-class train tickets: one departing from London to Paris and the second for a night train from Paris to Nice. The first ticket was stamped with a departure time just four hours from now.

And tucked between the documents was a small handwritten note: Quartermaster. Don't forget.
Phoebe exhaled slowly, her mind racing. A part of her wanted to march back into Whitaker's office and tell him outright that this mission was absurd—borderline suicidal, even. But she wasn't trained to complain. She was trained to adapt, to survive, and to execute.

She slipped the folder into her purse, checked her watch, and began walking briskly toward the part of the building occupied by the Quartermaster's division.

The only time she had been here, she'd collected the essentials: her service phone, laptop, and standard-issue Sig Sauer P365. This time, she was hoping for something more creative, something that wouldn't leave her feeling exposed against a target like Cohen.

The room she entered was vast and cluttered, a maze of metal shelves and workbenches piled with half-assembled gadgets, weapon prototypes, and equipment that looked both experimental and decades old. It had the chaotic charm of a place where things were built, tested, and occasionally exploded.

After a few moments of awkwardly standing in the middle of the room, waiting for someone to notice her, an older man emerged from behind a stack of crates. He was grey-haired, bespectacled, and had the kind of academic aura that suggested he could just as easily be lecturing at Oxford as running an MI6 equipment division.

"Lawson, I assume?" he asked, his Welsh accent gentle but unmistakable.

Phoebe nodded. "That's right."

He adjusted his glasses and smiled faintly before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a sleek, black pen. "I have something very special for you," he said with a hint of pride. "This, my dear, is no ordinary pen. It contains a finely tuned mixture of anesthetics, powerful enough to knock someone out cold for at least twelve hours. Simply press this button at the end to activate the spike, then press it through the skin. Quick and clean."

Phoebe stared at the pen in his hand, her stomach tightening as the implications hit her. She was expected to get close enough to Cohen to stab him with a pen? Close enough to a man who was not only sniper-trained but had years of close-combat experience?

A flicker of unease passed over her face, but she quickly masked it. The Quartermaster was still holding out the pen, waiting patiently.

Phoebe took it, weighing the slim object in her hand, and forced her voice to remain neutral. "Hmm, don't you have anything more effective from a safer distance? The person I'm expected to bring in is... extremely dangerous."

"I understand," he said, folding his arms over his chest. "But this pen is the most effective tool we have for such cases. Silent, discreet, and guaranteed to incapacitate without making a scene."

Phoebe felt the weight of those words settle on her. No backup. No scene. Just her and this damn pen.

The Quartermaster continued, a faint glint of amusement in his eyes. "Besides, I would think a sturdy woman like you wouldn't have much trouble getting close. Whoever your target may be."

Oh, you have no idea, old man, Phoebe thought. She slipped the pen into her coat pocket and nodded. "Is there anything else you have for me? Perhaps a more powerful firearm than the P365 I'm currently carrying?"

The older man chuckled softly and shook his head. "Unfortunately, I'm not authorised to issue you anything beyond what you've already been given."

"Of course not," she muttered under her breath, though she managed a polite smile.

This was bad. Not just bad—this was terrible. She thanked him quickly and exited the room, her heels clicking softly against the floor as she made her way back upstairs. As she stepped into the cold London air, her thoughts were a flurry of doubt and strategies.

Her next stop: her apartment in Lambeth. But as she walked, she couldn't shake the nagging thought gnawing at her mind.

This is not good. Not good at all.

As Phoebe zipped her expensive leather weekender bag closed, she exhaled sharply, the sound lingering in the quiet apartment. She couldn't shake the feeling of being an imposter.

Not just because she was the youngest active MI6 field agent or one of the few women on the roster. It was her background. She wasn't the polished Oxford graduate or ex-SAS veteran that others seemed to be. She had fought her way here through sheer grit. But tonight, with only her second mission ahead of her, the doubts pressed harder than usual.

Her gaze flicked toward the massive seven-metre-wide window that overlooked the darkening Thames River. The view was stunning, nothing like the concrete walls and broken stairwells of the council flat she had grown up in. The divide between past and present couldn't have been wider.

France. Her first time. And her first time on a night train. She had studied the country inside and out—its language, its history, its wine. The academy had made sure of that. But knowledge and preparation only went so far. Now, it came down to execution.

Imposter or not, Whitaker had given her the mission because he believed she could do it. And now, she had to believe it too.

She slung her coat over her arm, grabbed her bag, and glanced at her Blancpain. If she hurried, she'd make the train. With one last glance at the apartment, she shut the door behind her and stepped into the cold evening air.

It was time to go.

[Wookey]

Jane Bond, I presume. K++++