***
The airport. The Tailor stood in front of me; boarding would start any minute. Fuel and his bitter cologne stung the air. The sun was blinding, and I had to shove my shades back on.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I growled, brow knotted.
He swept a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, pushing it up like always. "Orders from upstairs," he murmured. "I couldn't brief you earlier."
I drew a long breath and traced imaginary lines across the asphalt with the tip of my shoe. A dry little laugh tore out of me. "So at the last minute you're telling me to let them arrest me on purpose and make sure they find out I'm a spy? Have you all gone insane?"
I folded my arms and stared at the gray sky, at the migrating birds. "If the Triangle Union figures out I'm an agent, they'll dissolve me in acid. And my oh-so-kind agency wants me to waltz in like, 'Hi, I'm a spy. Please arrest me.'"
The Tailor adjusted his sunglasses and stepped closer. I had to tip my head to see his face—I only reached his shoulder. Hands in his pockets, tailored slacks as always—sharp enough to justify his nickname: Dapper.
"Exactly. The Rose Organization wants you—once the plan advances and we pin down Ashur's location—to make sure they find you and realize you're a spy."
I lifted my brows and pressed my lips together, holding back until he finished.
He continued, firm and matter-of-fact. "They never reveal their core business to any new agent or new admin. You'd have to work ten years to prove yourself, and we don't have that kind of time."
He stepped closer. "Rumor has it the mad doctor's become the Triangle Union's number two… started a filthy enterprise that's making as much money as their arms deals. We think he's engineered a line of sex slaves—brands them, even."
I studied him; he didn't flinch.
"As far as we know," he said, "they've cultivated very particular buyers over the years, and we want those names. If our hypothesis is right—and it is—you surrender first, and in the final step you breach the doctor's restricted wing and laptop and send us his clients' names and locations."
A humorless scoff slipped out. I took a step back, turned to the sky. Are they playing me?
The Tailor's voice rasped, steady and low. "The moment I send you the thread, you blow your cover at the best possible time—because after the torture and interrogation, the doctor will show his hand and take you to his restricted wing to scare you. This plan doesn't have a loose stitch; you know I'm right."
I spun on him, stunned, then my mouth stretched into a brittle laugh. "And you think I'm agreeing to that? It's insane. What guarantee do I have that they won't shoot me on sight, huh?"
He slid off his sunglasses with a weary sigh, came up to me, and stopped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black card. My teeth ground. A barcode. A red rose.
He cleared his throat; I knew how hard this was for him. "You know what the Red Rose card means—it marks defiance against the Rose Organization. If you refuse the mission, they'll eliminate you before the Union does. You already know secrets you shouldn't."
He drew a long breath. "Please, Viona… we both know you don't have another option. They didn't tell you sooner because they needed to be sure you'd still go. If you refuse now—if you don't board that plane—do you really think they'll let you live?"
I swallowed hard and glared at the card. "But I heard one of your agents got the same card—King Fish—and the Rose Organization still hasn't killed him."
A cool, thin smile touched his mouth; his tone went gentle. "You know as well as I do—if they don't accept their mission soon, they're dead."
My hands balled into fists; I held my breath until my chest burned. "This wasn't our deal."
His gaze softened with sorrow. After a beat, he slid his arms around my shoulders, met my eyes, and said quietly, "Viona… I know you better than anyone alive—more than you can imagine. And I promise you: you can do this."