And when he spoke, he just said, “Great.”

  Sydney rose from her seat and cast him a cool glance. “Well?” she said. “Are you planning on nursing that cup forever, or are you ready to head out?”

  Whatever moment they’d had was over. Winter looked warily at her before rising, too, a new distance in his gaze. They stared at each other before he nodded, his hands finding his pockets. “I’m always ready,” he said. “What, no tip?”

  Sydney slapped a twenty on the table before walking to the door, holding it open with a flourish. “Here’s a tip, Winter. We don’t like to be kept waiting, so hurry along back to your room and break the happy news to your date about your romantic getaway with her.” She tore her gaze away from him. “And tell your manager you’re bringing me back on as your bodyguard. I’m sure Claire’s going to be delighted to deal with me again.”

  5

  Hidden Floors and Secrets

  To those unaware of the Panacea Group’s existence, the Claremont Hotel in Saint Paul, Minnesota, looked and operated like any standard luxury resort, its Grecian columns and domed roof reminiscent of a historic European cathedral. Guests entered the property’s wrought-iron gates and checked in at its marbled registration counter, took photos at Christmastime in front of the lobby’s grand, forty-foot-tall holiday tree, and enjoyed dinner in its Michelin-starred restaurant, Food for the Gods.

  Winter had once been one of those people.

  The last time he’d arrived, he’d come without any idea that hidden within the kitchens of that restaurant was the entrance to a secret agency—that situated a mile beneath the hotel was an entire labyrinth of experimental laboratories, floors filled with training facilities, of secret weapon arsenals and war rooms.

  Now, as his car pulled up to the hotel’s private side entrance behind a set of security gates, Winter glanced up at the imposing building. The sky overhead churned in a palette of charcoal, promising a storm that the news had been warning about for days. It matched his mood well.

  His phone dinged, and he looked down to see a text from Gavi.

  What are you up to today? she asked.

  Seeing a friend, he typed back.

  No one I know?

  He hesitated. Not yet.

  Ooh. Sounds intriguing. You know I love an adventure.

  Believe me, it’s just business.

  I love business. Especially when it’s your business.

  He put his phone down and looked out the window as the car came to a stop. He’d regretted agreeing to take Gavi to Singapore almost immediately, but he wasn’t about to back out now—no matter how much he wished he could. But now here he was, preparing for a mission he’d been dreaming about for a year, with an impossible ex-girlfriend on one arm and an irresistible secret agent on the other—one who might or might not hate him, depending on the day.

  He sighed and rubbed a hand across his face, wishing he’d been able to get more sleep the night before. After an evening of trying in vain to reach his mother, she’d finally called him back at one A.M., from what sounded like a loud party.

  Winter, she’d said, is this an emergency?

  It was how she always greeted him—as if she couldn’t wait to get off the phone again, as if she could barely stand to speak to him.

  Winter had swallowed the familiar ache in his heart. Where are you? he’d asked.

  At a friend’s birthday! She shouted above the din.

  Have you heard the news about the book? He’d asked, the dread settling in.

  What book?

  Someone is releasing an unauthorized tell-all book about me. Rumors say it’s you. I figured I should check in.

  Me? His mother had laughed, and in it, Winter could hear the origins of his own voice—warm, melodic. Why would I write a tell-all about you?

  Remember that interview, Mom? The one you thought was “off the record.”

  Oh, that. He could almost see her waving her hand flippantly. Am I not allowed to talk about you?

  That interview had dogged Winter for months—based on the answers his mother had given, reporters were suddenly digging for more about his private life growing up, about Artie’s death, about his absent father, about his struggles with depression.

  Did anyone approach you with a book deal? Winter pressed. Did you agree to anything? Sign anything, maybe without reading it?

  Of course not, his mother had scoffed.

  Winter didn’t believe her, not entirely—ever since Artie’s death, she’d had a tendency to absentmindedly agree to things and then promptly forget about them. It went hand in hand with her habit of constantly mixing up memories of him and his brother—who liked what, who went to what school in which year, who lived where—just as she constantly forgot her keys, her wallet, her money.

  Winter had gotten used to her state after his brother’s death. But with the book news, he felt the tension between them come roaring back.

  Ma, he said over the phone. You promise you didn’t do the deal?

  I have to go, Winter, she called back, and it was clear that she hadn’t heard him. We’ll talk later!

  Then she’d hung up.

  Winter had spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, trying to guess whether his mother had just forgotten, or whether she had nothing to do with the book at all. Those restless thoughts quickly bled into dreams of being a small child in his old home, trying to hide from the horrible stench of cigar smoke. A foul smell that only meant one thing: his father was visiting. He’d woken up disoriented and bleary-eyed, head pounding, with the phantom odor of cigar smoke still stinging his nose.

  An attendant opened the car door for Winter and he stepped out, rubbing his temples. He hurried in through a door held open for him by another attendant dressed all in black.

  The second attendant gave him a respectful nod as he passed by. “Welcome, Mr. Young,” he said as he closed the glass door behind them. “Ms. Cossette is already waiting for you. Please follow me.”

  Last time, Winter had arrived on a warm day into the sun-dappled dome of the hotel’s Michelin-starred restaurant, the crystal chandelier dominating the ceiling casting a million sparks of light against the walls. Today, that interior looked different with the dark skies overhead, the chandelier dull and unlit, the grayness permeating the space and turning the pastoral European scenes painted on the round walls ominous.

  He followed the associate, noting the restaurant’s name etched into the stone columns.

  FOOD FOR THE GODS

  There, at the end of the hallway, right in front of the security check, was Sydney, her blond bob messy with waves, dressed in her usual black bomber jacket and a pair of black and gray striped trousers.

  “On time, for once,” she said archly before waving for security to let him through.

  “I’m always on time,” he replied. “Everyone else is just early.”

  She didn’t answer, nor did she give him a second glance as they walked.

  Now that he had a chance to steal looks at her without her staring back, Winter noticed that there were a few things different about her compared to when they last worked together. Her hair had grown longer, the tips of her strands ending in a slight wave that curved right against the tops of her shoulders. There was a faint, inch-long scar near where her jaw connected with her ear, as if she’d gotten nicked in a fight. He wanted to tuck her hair back and get a better look at it, ask her what had happened.

  It took Winter a second to realize that his body language was mimicking Sydney’s—hands in pockets, stride in sync. Their bodies still seemed attuned to each other, the way they were during Winter’s training. What a strange pas de deux between them; he instinctively tilted his head whenever she did, and she always seemed to turn exactly when he did. But now there was also an almost awkward distance between them, something he’d felt when they’d exited the café in Honolulu.

  Sydney led them through a set of double doors and into the restaurant’s kitchen, where they walked through a veil of steam and smoke. The rich scent of garlic and bay leaves filled the air, and Winter breathed in deeply as restaurant staff hurried past them. Now and then, one of them would recognize his face and their eyes would settle on him momentarily. But no one stopped him, no one gasped or screamed in delight. The lack of attention felt unfamiliar. Uncomfortable. Unpleasant.

  They’re all Panacea staff, Winter reminded himself. Still, it was a strange sensation, walking among so many people as a nobody. People who weren’t what they seemed.

  They stopped in front of a line of refrigerators. Sydney pulled the second one open—but instead of revealing chilled compartments of food, it gave way to a long, secret corridor, the carpet thick and dark gray.

  Winter had done this before, but it didn’t matter. It was hard to get accustomed to using a fridge as a secret entrance. He suspected this was a thrill that would never fade.

  When they stepped inside an elevator at the end of the corridor, Winter reached out to push the buttons heading down—but Sydney covered them before he could. Her cool fingers wrapped around his wrist, and a shiver ran through him.

  “Not this time,” she said.

  “I thought we were going to Panacea?” he asked.

  “We are.” She hit the button for the seventh floor, then glanced upward. “We’re just heading up today.”

  He looked at her. “I thought the labs were a mile under the hotel.”

  “We’re heading to wardrobe today,” Sydney replied as the elevator rose. “Sauda and Niall are waiting for us there.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Winter that the hotel’s upper floors weren’t all regular suites, that Panacea operated out of the Claremont’s rooms themselves as well as the space excavated far below. He recalled the way his stomach had leapt during his last trip, when the elevator descended for several minutes and then opened into an extraordinary underground bunker.

  They traveled in silence for a minute. Then the elevator came to a serene stop, and the doors slid open to reveal a single, massive floor that stretched to every wall.

  At first glance, it reminded Winter of a fashion house’s headquarters—dozens of color-coded clothing racks were arranged in neat rows against one wall, while elegant outfits on display inside glass cases lined the others, as if they were part of a curated gallery at the Met. In the center of the room was a cylindrical structure, its surface smooth and reflective.

  They passed through one last set of security right in front of the elevator.

  “Sorry, this gate’s new,” Sydney said. “We had several added after some Orange Alerts last year.” Then she nodded in the direction of the clothing on display. “Welcome to the House of Panacea. Here, our highly specialized tailors create everything we need to wear on each of our expeditions.”

  Winter looked around incredulously, then toward the windows lining the walls. Through them, he could see the rain starting to come down outside.

  “No one has ever asked questions about a mysterious fashion house located inside a luxury hotel?” he asked.

  “Not when they can’t see it,” Sydney told him as they went. “Those aren’t windows. They’re double-sided screens.”

  Winter blinked at her. “Screens?”

  “We commissioned them from Henka Games.” Sydney led him over to the windows, then ran her finger against what appeared to be a windowpane. “Embedded in the wall right above each window is a near-microscopic camera that sends a live video feed of the outside world to this screen. It makes it look like you’re staring out at the street, but you’re actually watching a video stream. From the outside, people looking in through what they think are windows are seeing live video from a staged floor we have set up at the top of the building. To them, this floor looks like the interiors of hotel suites. It’s more challenging than it looks, as it needs to adjust the scenery for depth, depending on where you’re standing.” She grinned at him in a way that made his heart leap. “But it fooled you, didn’t it?”

  “It absolutely did,” he murmured, admiring the screen. Even this close to it, even knowing what he did, he couldn’t make out the pixels. The resolution must have been so high that he couldn’t discern the difference. A shiver of fear and delight ran down his spine. Maybe it wouldn’t matter how many times he visited Panacea. They would find a way to surprise him every time.

  “Well. Look who the Jackal dragged in.”

  Sydney and Winter turned their heads in unison at a woman dressed in a buttery yellow hijab and a vest suit with trousers.

  Sauda Nazari, Winter thought immediately, one of Panacea’s mission directors. She was tall and dark and willowy, almost delicate, but when she reached them and shook Winter’s hand, her grip belied her strength.

  “Let me cut to the chase—I didn’t expect to ever call you again after London,” Sauda continued. “But here we are.”

  Winter couldn’t help smiling at the sight of her. “Didn’t think I caused enough trouble last time, Ms. Nazari?”

  Sauda raised an eyebrow at him, but a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “I suppose we concluded that your help is worth the potential damage,” she answered. She released his hand and waved him forward. “Come. Niall is already complaining about being pulled away from one of his projects for our meeting today.”

  As they followed in her wake, Sydney walked closer to Winter and nudged him gently with her shoulder. “Not a word about his beard.”

  They passed the rows of clothing on display before they reached the cylindrical structure in the center of the room. Sauda pressed her hand against its side.

  The curved wall rotated, and a door slid open, revealing an interior that looked like a polished fitting room. A series of suits hung on a rack against one end of the space, while the other had an elevated dais surrounded by mirrors.

  Inside stood a big, burly man in a burgundy-colored suit, his brows thick and furrowed as if he were ready to start an argument. The man looked over at them from where he was busy arranging several of the outfits hanging on the rack.

  “Finally,” he grumbled, his voice matching the low, grating sound of thunder coming from outside. “Welcome back, Mr. Young.”

  Winter’s eyes went straight to the man’s broad, smooth chin. “You’re … clean-shaven,” he commented instinctively.

  At that, the man’s brows pushed even lower, until they seemed like they might swallow his eyes whole. “Against my will,” he growled, his gaze darting to Sauda.

  Sauda crossed her arms. “Oh, come now,” she said. “You look tidy.” She nodded at Winter. “He’s retiring in two weeks, right after your mission. Just wanted him to look his best for his farewell tour.”

  Winter thought he looked a bit like an enormous baby without his facial hair, but a sharp elbow to his ribs from Sydney jolted him out of his thoughts. He winced and glared at her.

  “What part of ‘not a word’ did you not understand?” she whispered.

  Winter rubbed his chest and nodded at Niall. “Retiring? Congratulations, sir.”

  “Don’t congratulate me yet.” Niall scowled and rubbed absently at the smooth skin on his chin. “I’m coordinating your mission on-site with the CIA, and apparently some think I look too sloppy with my beard.”

  “That’s not exactly what I said,” Sauda replied.

  “Sloppy and messy are synonyms,” he argued back.

  Sydney leaned toward Winter and whispered, “Once he retires, he’ll be visiting his daughter for the first time in a decade. He’s a little anxious. Go easy on him.”

  Winter stared at her, noting the way her shoulders tensed as she spoke. “You seem a little anxious, too,” he said in a low voice.

  She shrugged him off, but her posture remained unchanged.

  Niall’s attention finally returned to Winter. “Good to see you again, kid.”

  “Glad to be invited back.”

  The man shrugged. “You weren’t my first choice.”

  “One can’t hear that enough,” Winter said.

  “Be nice, Niall,” Sauda scolded, and the man rubbed his round chin again.

  “Are we fitting him first?” Sydney asked as they stopped before the central dais.

  “Might as well do it now, since he’s here,” Sauda replied. She nodded at Winter and gestured at the dais. “Please.”

  Winter stepped up onto the round platform and found himself staring at three long mirrors reflecting three angles of himself. At least this felt familiar—over the years, he had been fitted a thousand times for a thousand different outfits.

  Sauda raised her voice slightly and spoke to no one in particular. “Avalon—his measurements, please.”

  Avalon. Winter had almost forgotten about the AI that ran throughout the entire building. Last time he was here, Avalon had scanned every single one of his personal details and displayed them on the meeting room wall, from his social security number to the last order he’d placed at a restaurant.

  This time, a pleasant voice came on the room’s speakers.

  “Winter Young,” it said, “please hold out your arms to either side.”

  Winter obeyed. As he did, clusters of numbers and text drifted onto the mirrors facing him on the dais, appearing in the appropriate places around his reflection.

  Arm length to shoulder: 36 inches

  Shoulder width: 51 inches

  Waist size: 29 inches

  Inseam: 33 inches

  “The gala you’ll both be attending after the Warcross ceremony is a rather grand affair,” Sauda told him as the numbers went on. “And that means looking the part, but in your own way, given who you are. So we wanted to make sure we dressed you in something you’d actually wear.”

  Winter’s attention shifted from the floating numbers on the mirror to the line of clothes hanging on the racks. His gaze settled on a suit closest to him that had been carefully separated from the others.

  “This one?” he asked.

  “We’ll tailor it to fit you like a glove,” Sauda said. “But yes.”

  It was an Alexander McQueen design, he could tell immediately, with its skull-shaped cuffs and unique detailing along the seams, a scarlet kerchief folded into the breast pocket. It was the most beautiful suit he’d ever seen. He would have ordered this, had he seen it on a runway.