“I’m guessing the House of McQueen isn’t in on this caper,” he said.

  “Of course not,” Sauda answered. “We just had it altered a bit.”

  “Altered how?”

  Niall stepped forward. “Keep your arm extended.”

  Winter obeyed. As he did, Niall removed the suit jacket from the rack and pulled its left sleeve, then right, onto Winter’s arms. The fabric slid on, cold and sleek. Niall smoothed the lapels, took a step back, and reached into his jacket.

  “Stand absolutely still, please,” Niall added.

  Winter nodded.

  Niall pulled out a gun and pointed it at Winter’s arm.

  Winter’s eyes popped open. He started to protest—but Niall had already pulled the trigger.

  The bullet rocketed out of the gun and into his sleeved arm. A violent jolt of pain shot through him, and he flinched, his body swinging to one side from the impact. Then he heard the bullet clink to the floor.

  “Ow!” Winter managed to yell. “What the hell?”

  No one else reacted. Sydney nodded at her mentor. “You got the design to muffle the sound, too?” she asked.

  “By thirty percent,” Niall said with a nod as he bent to pick up the bullet case.

  Sydney made an impressed sound. “I can tell.”

  Niall held the bullet case up to Winter—and Winter found himself staring at a bit of metal that looked like it had slammed into a steel wall. Well, this was new. He’d never been shot at a fitting before.

  “What makes this suit special,” Niall said to Winter, “is that the fabric isn’t made out of fabric at all, but a synthetic diamond mesh engineered to feel like linen but strong enough to be impenetrable by bullets. The technology of the mesh’s molecular structure combined with the technique of the weave also absorbs a great deal of the impact.” He looked at Winter. “How does your arm feel?”

  “Sore,” he complained, rubbing at the spot where the bullet had hit.

  “But unharmed, yes?” Niall suggested.

  Winter nodded begrudgingly as he ran his fingers along the suit’s sleeve. The material felt slightly heavier than the suits he was accustomed to wearing—and when he peered closer at where the bullet had struck, he noticed with astonishment that the sleeve looked almost untouched, with just a trace of gunpowder dotting the surface. He brushed it off, and the jacket was as good as new.

  “Those skull cuffs also aren’t just cuffs,” Niall added as he touched the metal studs.

  “Listening devices?” Winter suggested, remembering the chips that his jewelry had been embedded with during his last mission.

  Niall shook his head. “Tap the left cuff three times in rapid succession with your thumb, then twist it sideways. It’s designed to respond only to your fingerprint, and only to this pattern of touch.”

  Winter followed the directions—and the cuff popped off, then flashed a blinking red light. Startled, he dropped it.

  “Is that a bomb?” he said incredulously.

  “Of sorts.” Niall picked it up and tapped it twice, shutting it off. “Only you can activate yours, although anyone can turn it off. Not a massive explosive, but it’ll cause a bit of damage.”

  “Right, sure,” Winter muttered, gingerly pressing it again so that the cuff snapped back onto his sleeve.

  “Of course, try to use it sparingly,” Niall said, patting the pocket beside the front lapel of the suit. When he removed his hand, Winter saw a gleaming silver pen tucked into it. “You’ve got a pen flare here that will work just fine as a distraction. Shield your eyes.” To demonstrate, he took it out and clicked it twice.

  A blindingly bright flare burst from the tip of the pen, drenching the room in light.

  “You’ll each get one,” Niall said, twisting the pen, and the light shut off again. “Keep this on you at all times.” He tucked the pen back into the pocket with a pat.

  Winter blinked, still seeing a few spots from the flash. “I could have used a suit like this during the last mission,” he muttered.

  “Our apologies,” Sauda replied. “You were only supposed to attend a party last time and get a recording for us. We didn’t think you’d need this.”

  Her words sent a ripple of unease through Winter. He turned to look at her. “But I will this time?”

  “I’m sure Sydney gave you a brief introduction to what your mission will be,” Sauda said.

  Winter glanced at Sydney. “She mentioned this was a rescue.”

  “Yes, an extraction. Given the high-profile politicians at this event and the level of security, I think we’d best play it safe and fit you for one of these.”

  Best play it safe. Winter turned his eyes back down to the suit and concentrated on the feel of it, not wanting to dwell on Sauda’s words. Safety precautions weren’t new to him, of course—someone had once stabbed him with a knife as a crowd mobbed him outside an after-party, someone had once grabbed his hair and thrown him to the ground, someone had once broken into his home while he was asleep. Over time, Claire had nearly perfected the art of keeping him safe, everything from placing the right number of bodyguards in a location to getting him in and out of buildings with top speed and secrecy.

  But compared to this, his usual security tactics seemed like child’s play. Keeping someone from grabbing his hair was a far cry from fitting him into a literal suit of armor and sending him into the middle of a political battlefield.

  “You okay?” Sydney asked, peering at him.

  He frowned. “I’m doing so great. Please tell me more about the imminent and immediate danger we’re heading into face-first.”

  Sydney folded her arms, unbothered, and turned to Sauda. “Might be a good time to enlighten us both,” she said to the director. “I don’t even know the name of the operative we’re rescuing.”

  Sauda exchanged a look with Niall, who gave her a subtle nod.

  Sydney frowned. “What?” she asked.

  Niall shrugged. “Just tell her,” he said. “Get it over with. Then we’ll move onto everything else.”

  Sauda looked at Winter through the mirror, then at Sydney. “Very well,” she said with a sigh. “The agent’s code name is the Arsonist.”

  It meant nothing to Winter, but he saw Sydney stiffen.

  “You’re kidding,” she murmured.

  “I’m not.” Sauda narrowed her eyes at her young ward. “You’ll be extracting Tems Bourton.”

  Sydney didn’t say anything more. Instead, her blue eyes darkened into a storm. She pushed away from the curved wall of the fitting room, her eyes flickering briefly to Winter before she stalked out of the space, slamming the door behind her.

  “Give her a second,” Sauda said to Niall.

  “I know,” Niall answered.

  The unease Winter felt quickly congealed into dread. He turned around on the dais and gave Sauda a curious frown. “Why’d she do that?” he asked.

  Sauda looked in the direction Sydney had gone. “You would, too,” she replied, “if you were just ordered to rescue your ex.”

  6

  Bad Diplomacy

  The Arsonist.

  The name echoed in Sydney’s mind as she marched out of the room. She had been the one to suggest it for Tems, back when they’d graduated from Panacea’s training program and he’d completed his first mission. It had been an escapade that ended with him setting alight an entire freight train in the middle of a midnight field, an inferno so bright that the snaking flames could be seen from space.

  You should name him the Arsonist, she’d said sarcastically to Sauda. He follows orders about as well as a wildfire does.

  It had stuck. And then Sydney hadn’t seen him again until three years later, when they were both stationed briefly in Stockholm, Sweden, and Niall had assigned her as his partner.

  They’d ended up getting snowed into their hotel for two days—days they spent in bed together.

  She cringed at the memory of their affair. He’d been a good kisser—good at a lot more than that, actually—but he had also stranded her in the country by stealing her passport and altering it to use himself.

  Sorry, sweetheart. Just business.

  She could still remember his scrawled note, signed at the bottom with a knife through a heart.

  What an asshole. She still hadn’t forgiven him for it. Still, she sometimes wondered idly what Panacea had him up to. Rumors swirled about his insubordinance—that Niall had him shipped overseas for it, although the analyst never mentioned him. She’d only pieced it together after she spotted Tems in a photo on the Sapphire Cross’s site, broad smile on his face as he handed out supplies at the charity’s outpost in Greece. But when Sydney was in London last year with Winter, Tems had been the one who’d left a parcel for her in the Alexandra Palace’s bathroom, the only evidence of his identity being that same signature.

  She would have been fine with that being the only contact she had to endure from him for the rest of her life. But now here she was with orders to rescue him from his own mission.

  No wonder they had kept his identity a secret from her until now. She was going to kill Sauda for this.

  As if on cue, she heard Sauda’s voice calling her. “Come back, Syd,” the woman said in her calm, unconcerned voice. “And meet us in Sim A.”

  “You could have told me,” Sydney snapped over her shoulder.

  “Why?” Sauda called back with a shrug. “So you could throw this tantrum sooner?”

  “So I could tell you to pick someone else for this mission.”

  “There’s always a reason we choose you for your missions. It’s possible your refusal could trigger a global war.” She nodded once at Sydney. “And cost Tems his life.”

  Sydney hissed a swear under her breath and looked away at the false windows. Sauda’s words burned in her mind. Global war. God damn it all. She could have been a tour guide instead—or any other job that required knowing multiple languages and where the world’s salvation didn’t hang on her every task.

  “He nearly cost me mine once,” she snapped. “We’d be even.”

  “Look, I get it,” Sauda said. “Tems is a bit … unruly. We’ve had our own frustrations with him.” She turned in the direction of the glass rooms lining the end of the floor. “But he’s also one of our best. If you’re still upset about it later, just say the word. We’ll send Winter home, and try to avert global disaster. But don’t begrudge our commitment to protecting our agents. We’d do the same for you—and we need him as much as we need you. So just hear me out. Are we clear?”

  Sydney stood where she was for a second longer, trying to push her annoyance down. Behind Sauda, she saw Winter emerge from the dais with his hands in his pockets, his eyes cautiously fixed on her.

  Then she started walking back. “Crystal,” she muttered. “But this better be good. And give me several backup passports this time.”

  Sauda just turned coolly away and started leading them to the offices. As Sydney caught up to Winter, he fell into step beside her.

  “An ex, huh?” he murmured.

  His words sounded light, almost teasing, but she noticed the tightness of his jaw, the stiffness of his posture. It made her tense, too.

  “Ex is too strong a word,” she said coldly, without looking at him. “We had a two-day affair while on assignment. An overrated fling.”

  “Mm,” he answered. “This mission’s getting more fun by the minute.”

  They stepped into the first of the glass offices and entered what appeared to be an empty room. The blank door had several words etched on it.

  SIMULATION ROOM A

  Winter paused, as if wondering where the chairs and tables were.

  “Just stand still,” Sydney told him. “The room’s recording your dimensions.”

  Niall closed the door behind them and turned to Sauda. “You do the honors,” he said.

  Sauda twisted her wrist in midair. A hologram suddenly appeared between them all, a map of Southeast Asia hovering in the air like a glowing lantern. She gestured at a small dot on the map. “Avalon,” she said, “zoom in on Singapore.”

  The dot expanded all around them until a three-dimensional simulation of Singapore filled the entire room. Suddenly, they were standing in a busy intersection in the middle of a city. The sound of motorbikes and cars filled the room. When Sydney looked to her side, she saw street stalls lining open-air buildings, the vendors tossing pan-fried noodles in woks and turning skewers of meat behind curtains of steam, luxury skyscrapers and jungle foliage filling in the scene behind them. It was such a realistic simulation that she could almost feel the humidity in the air.

  “I transferred Tems here three months ago,” Niall said.

  “Sightseeing?” Sydney suggested, her eyes following the traffic.

  “Recon,” Niall answered, “on an alleged plot to assassinate the US president.”

  At this, Sydney’s head whipped sharply to Niall. “Rosen’s under threat?”

  “Mr. Rosen, yes. His dissenters have always had dangerous intentions, but their actions have escalated lately.”

  Sydney turned back to the simulation. Her hands were gripping her elbows hard enough now to leave white marks fading against her skin. She’d met the president once, at a private White House security event. She knew to distrust politicians, had too much intel on too many of them not to, but Rosen was different. He was the kind of person who inspired loyalty, who had a way of speaking that made you love him—believe in him, even. His campaign promises may have been lofty, but somehow, he made it seem possible, and more importantly, like he meant what he said. She remembered the way he’d shaken her hand at the event and the kind smile he’d given her, how he’d taken the time to quietly thank her for her work in taking down a homegrown terrorist group in Montana.

  Suddenly, she understood the delicate nature of their mission. Rosen was the most beloved president they’d had in decades. If he was assassinated, the streets would explode with riots. It would be a murder of John F. Kennedy–level proportions. It would destabilize the entire globe.

  “We’ve been tracking the threats closely alongside the CIA,” Niall continued.

  “Now, Mr. Rosen is scheduled to attend the Warcross gala as a celebration of how the global economy has come together over technology. Earlier this year, our analysts sniffed out a plot by a rebel group to assassinate Mr. Rosen at that gala.”

  The world around them shifted again, and this time they found themselves standing outside what looked like a neo-Palladian palace in the middle of the city, surrounded by lush lawns and tropical trees. Banners in the colors of the Singaporean flag fluttered on either side of the entrance steps.

  Sydney shook her head. “Why target Rosen right now?”

  “The rebels plan to pin the blame on China. They’re hoping to trigger a war between China and the United States, with Singapore trapped in the middle as the proxy country. We believe they have an arms deal with China that is motivating them to do this.” Sauda tapped the air, and the simulation shifted again. Now they were standing in the marble lobby of the gala building, the sound of other people’s footsteps and voices echoing around them.

  “We’d sent Tems to gather information on this rumor, which he would then pass to the US authorities arriving for the gala in order to stop the assassination attempt—without any of this information going public, of course.”

  “You mentioned the CIA’s involved?” Sydney asked.

  “Yes.” Sauda made a swiping motion in midair, and the scene around them shifted to another part of the gala building—a hallway down which now walked several people in suits. The simulation suddenly froze on this scene. “Niall will be on a separate flight. Once he arrives, he’ll head to the CIA’s setup there to coordinate their work with our agents at the Sapphire Cross.”

  Sydney’s stomach sank at the familiar, bejeweled cross pins glittering on the trio’s suit jackets. “Can’t President Rosen just say he’s unable to go?” she said. “Broke a finger? Caught the flu?”

  “Bad diplomacy,” Niall replied. “The president won’t be cowed by a mere rumored threat. Besides, the culprits will simply postpone their plans for another time. The CIA wants them arrested as soon as possible, as you can imagine. It’s not much of a choice.” The man gave her a dry scowl. “A bit like how we need you to rescue Tems.”

  Sydney wanted to snort. Bad diplomacy, indeed.

  “So, what happened to your agent?” Winter asked.

  “Last week, Tems was supposed to reach out to us and deliver preliminary intel he’d gathered on the assassination ahead of the gala. He never showed.”

  Sydney swallowed, but her throat felt like it had a rock lodged in it.

  Niall nodded. “We believe he might have had his cover blown, or has someone on his trail that’s making it difficult for him to communicate with us, or is in some similar trouble. He told us in his last message that he will still be present at the gala. So we’ve arranged secret transportation for him out of the country on that night, possibly the only place with enough security for him to be safely present. We think if you can find him at the gala, we can smuggle him out from there. But he can’t get out alone. He’ll need new identification and another agent to help him.”

  “That’s where we come in, I’m guessing,” Sydney said.

  Sauda pursed her lips, then eyed her and Winter. “Your mission,” she concluded, “is to go to the gala and get the Arsonist out of there without causing a scene. We’ll tell you when and where to meet him.”

  Sydney took a slow, deep breath in, but her lungs were already reacting to the thought of being in the middle of a political crisis.

  Beside her, Winter nodded. “So all you need from me is to get Sydney in?”

  Niall leaned his elbows against the table. “You’ll be putting on the biggest concert in Singapore’s history a day before the gala. We can easily get you onto the gala’s guest list, and you’ll get Sydney in as your bodyguard.”

  “You mentioned you had a date ready?” Sauda asked.