Locke had been unconscious.
Blade said he didn't remember killing Deacon Frost.
Deacon was dead.
And Quinn had disappeared.
Based on those facts alone, Natasha's deduction wasn't wild speculation. It was clean logic. If someone else had delivered the final blow and vanished, Quinn was the obvious candidate.
And that was exactly the effect Locke wanted.
Because framing someone required caution.
Especially when the potential scapegoat involved S.H.I.E.L.D.
You didn't casually push responsibility toward a powerful intelligence agency. If you were going to guide suspicion in a direction, you had to control the narrative carefully. Too blunt, and it turned into open hostility. Too vague, and it became useless.
Locke had no intention of fully severing ties with S.H.I.E.L.D.
His father had once told him something that stuck.
In the eyes of a mature politician, enemies sometimes become friends, and friends sometimes become enemies.
In simpler terms, never corner someone completely unless you intend to eliminate them—or you are absolutely certain they will never speak again.
Locke wasn't a politician. He had no desire to inherit the family's political legacy. But he respected the logic behind that rule.
That was why he always phrased it as "possible" that Blade killed Deacon, never "definite."
On a broad strategic level, it preserved flexibility.
On a practical level, Blade was still alive. And New York was crawling with vampires. Blade was a very useful blade.
If Blade died—and if the Ultimate Evolution Module ever decided Blade wasn't classified as an ally—Locke would lose a significant advantage.
He listened to Natasha's speculation and chuckled softly. "It's possible. Just like Blade. Possible."
Natasha narrowed her eyes. She stepped back as he stood, adjusting his clothes.
"You really don't plan to pin this on us?"
She still sensed something beneath the surface.
Locke fastened his belt and looked at her evenly. "Why would I?"
"Because you didn't notify me."
"Because I didn't want you getting hurt."
The words landed cleanly.
Natasha froze for half a second, then studied his face more closely. Her expression tightened instead of softening.
Locke held her gaze without flinching.
It was, objectively, a dangerous flaw in his approach.
But his reputation for calculated boldness wasn't for nothing.
And yes—there had been a personal reason. Natasha was elite in her field.
She was not a specialized vampire hunter.
Before either of them could say more, a faint cough sounded from outside the stall.
Natasha's attention snapped toward the door. She opened it and stepped out.
"Robin," she greeted calmly.
Locke followed her out and saw the woman standing by the sink, arms crossed, posture straight, her presence cool and controlled.
The woman glanced at Natasha first, then shifted her gaze to Locke as he stepped fully out of the cubicle.
"When the Sentinel Secret Service collaborates," she asked lightly, "do you always hold briefings in women's restrooms?"
Locke didn't react. He walked to the sink beside her, turned on the faucet, and washed his hands thoroughly. In the mirror, he smoothed back his hair where Natasha's fingers had disrupted it.
He shut off the water, shook his hands dry, and retrieved a cigarette from his pocket.
He placed it between his lips, lit it, and exhaled slowly.
Then he looked at her through the mirror.
"I'm curious," he said, "what kind of operation requires S.H.I.E.L.D.'s deputy director and senior commander to go undercover personally?"
Their eyes met directly.
The woman smiled faintly and extended her hand.
"Maria Hill. Call me Hill."
Locke accepted it. "Locke Underwood. Natasha and I are friends. Locke's fine."
"I gathered."
Hill's gaze flicked briefly to Natasha, who was adjusting her hair in the mirror.
She had been in the restroom longer than expected.
At first, Hill assumed Natasha had simply stepped away. Then she saw Locke heading toward the back hallway.
Hill's instincts had flagged him immediately. His posture, his composure, the way he moved—it wasn't ordinary.
So she observed.
She watched Natasha pull him into the women's restroom.
At that point, curiosity outweighed discretion.
Hill entered quietly. She heard movement from inside the stall. Heard conversation layered beneath it.
And listened.
She had originally planned to leave.
But when she recognized the subject matter—supernatural threats, operational responsibility, Deacon Frost—she stayed.
It was awkward.
But necessary.
To avoid interruption, she'd even hung an "Inspection" sign outside the restroom door.
What she should have heard, she heard.
What she shouldn't have heard, she heard as well.
That part could be corrected later with a memory wipe device.
As for Locke being married and still entangled with Natasha—that was none of her concern.
Personal matters were personal matters.
Hill released his hand and spoke evenly. "This differs from our previous cooperation agreement."
Locke exhaled smoke. "Deacon was your target too."
"Yes," Hill replied. "But we wanted him alive."
"Dead works better."
That was honest.
S.H.I.E.L.D. intelligence suggested Deacon Frost had been preparing something significant. Something large-scale.
Locke didn't know what.
S.H.I.E.L.D. likely did.
Otherwise, the Triskelion wouldn't have shown up at Sentinel headquarters days ago.
Hill shook her head slightly. "If he's dead, we may never know what he was planning."
Locke raised three fingers casually.
"Rule three."
Hill blinked. "What?"
"If you can't solve the problem," Locke said calmly, "solve the person who created it."
He lowered his hand slowly.
"I don't know what he was planning. I don't need to. He's a rogue supernatural entity. If there's an opportunity to eliminate him before he causes chaos, you take it."
Within the legal framework, vampires didn't qualify for human protections.
They weren't human.
Human rights didn't apply.
Hill's expression tightened. "If he's gone, someone worse could rise."
Locke lifted a fourth finger.
"Rule four."
"And that is?"
"Trust the wisdom of future generations."
...
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