Chapter 2: Game Theory

Kyle looked at the woman and said nothing.

She wasn't in a hurry. She pulled out a business card from her bag and slid it across the counter.

Vera Sterling, CEO of the Sterling Group.

Kyle had heard the name before. The Sterling Group was headquartered in Seattle, covering military contracting, energy, and biotech—worth forty billion dollars, with long-term contracts tied to the Department of Defense.

"Heard of me?" Vera asked.

"Heard of your company." Kyle pushed the card back. "Not interested."

"I haven't said what it's about yet."

"Doesn't matter what it's about. I'm retired."

Vera didn't touch the card. She reached into her bag again and pulled out something else—a leather envelope with no postmark, just a handwritten name: Raven.

Kyle's face didn't change. But under the table, his fingers quietly clenched.

"Two years ago," Vera began, "you took a job. Target code name 'Architect.' You found out he owned a biotech company. In the lab, there was a woman being used as a test subject."

She paused.

"That woman was Amy's mother."

Kyle didn't move.

"You got her out. But she didn't make it. Car accident—that's what the official report said. You know it wasn't an accident."

"What do you want?"

"I need you to find someone for me," Vera said. "Marcus Sterling. Three years ago, he headed the biotech division at the Sterling Group. He's also my brother."

"The Sterling Group looks like a military contractor on the surface, but behind the scenes, it runs the country's largest magic drug research team. Three years ago, there was an 'accident' in the lab—it wasn't an accident at all. The military wanted to test the live effects of a new magic weapon. Seventeen people. Fifteen died, one was disabled, and one walked away without a scratch."

"The one who was fine—that was Amy's mother. She had natural magic resistance. Marcus found out and targeted her."

"Not long after, Marcus disappeared. The company said he resigned. I checked—no resignation letter, no exit paperwork, nobody saw him leave."

"He was locked up," Kyle said.

"Right. Locked up by the very organization he built. The place is called 'the Nest,' in Maine. On paper it's a sanatorium, but really it's a cage for his test subjects."

"You want me to rescue him?"

"I want you to bring him out. Alive."

"Why?"

"He has a list. Complete records from that accident three years ago—who gave the orders, who covered it up, who treated seventeen people as disposable."

"That thing could destroy a lot of people."

"Yes," Vera said. "Including that congressman."

Kyle was silent for a long time.

"Marcus was the one who carried it out," he said.

"Yes."

"So what's your role in all this?"

Vera's eyes flickered for a moment—brief, but Kyle caught it.

"I'm the one who doesn't want to take these crimes to the grave."

Kyle rolled up his left sleeve. The inside of his forearm was covered with the same name written over and over: Irene. Some faded, some fresh. Beneath the ink was a patch of burn scars.

He pulled out a pen and wrote the name again in a blank spot. Then with the metal clip on the pen cap, he scratched a dot under the line.

Vera watched without speaking.

"Two years ago," Kyle began, "when Irene died, she had the key in her hand. I picked it up at the crash site. With her last breath, she left me that key—inside was everything she brought out of the lab: birth records, experiment reports, every contract the Sterling Group ever signed."

"I know."

"You know I have the key, know I have dirt on you. You're not here because you trust me. You figured if I don't help you, that stuff goes public."

"Then why haven't you released those files yet?"

Kyle didn't answer.

"Because you're scared," Vera said. "You're scared that once you release them, they'll go after Amy. You have evidence, but no way to protect her. You need me."

"I don't need anyone."

"Then why are you still sitting here?"

Kyle looked at her for a long time.

"Three days," he said. "I'll give you an answer in three days."

"Three days is too long."

"Three days. That's my condition."

Vera stood up, walked to the door, stopped, and looked back at him.

"Raven," she said, "do you know why you didn't kill 'Architect' two years ago? It wasn't because you weren't strong enough. It's because halfway through your investigation, you found out he wasn't what you thought. You hesitated. Then the job got called off, your handler died, and that woman died too."

"What are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying—don't hesitate this time."

The door closed. The wind chime rang softly once.

Kyle sat behind the counter, staring at the business card.

He looked down at the counter—the drawing Amy had given him that morning was peeking out. He pulled it out and unfolded it: "Book Hero." A man sitting behind a desk with tall stacks of books in front of him, none of them open.

He folded the drawing and tucked it into his left sleeve, against all those names.

He pulled his sleeve back down, his eyes falling on the writing on his arm: Irene, Irene, Irene. The oldest line was already blurred, the burn scars merged into a patch of dark, hardened skin.

He picked up the pen and wrote in a blank spot: Amy.

That evening Kyle returned to 412 Maple Street.

Amy was already asleep. Dorothy was knitting in the living room. When she saw him come in, she took off her glasses.

"Why so late today?"

"Working late."

"Kyle," Dorothy paused, "someone came asking about you today."

Kyle's hand stopped on the doorknob.

"Who?"

"A woman. Said she was from a data company, verifying resident information. Asked when you moved in, what you do for work."

"What did you tell her?"

"I said you work at the library, moved in over a year ago, that you're a good kid." Dorothy looked at him. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No," Kyle said. "If anyone else asks, just say I'm not around."

"You—?"

"It's fine," he said. "Just a small thing."

He went up to the attic and locked the door.

His phone lit up with a message from a Seattle number:

"Raven, I found it. That car outside Oak Town had Virginia plates, registered to a rental company. The renter was listed as Sterling Group legal department."

Kyle stared at the screen.

Vera hadn't lied. The people in the car were hers.

But she'd also said, "Don't hesitate this time."

She was testing him. If he couldn't spot the surveillance, he wasn't worth using. If he could, he was worth working with.

Kyle leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling.

Downstairs, Amy rolled over and mumbled something in her sleep, too unclear to make out.

He closed his eyes for three seconds, then opened them and picked up his phone, dialing the number on the card.

It rang twice, then connected.

"Made up your mind?" Vera's voice.

"Three days is too long," Kyle said. "Tomorrow."

A second of silence on the other end.

"What do you need?"

"Floor plan of the Nest, security shift schedule, a recent photo of Marcus. And one more thing."

"What?"

"A helicopter. Maine, with someone to meet me on the ground."

"Done."

"One more thing."

"What?"

Kyle's voice was quiet, flat.

"If I die, someone will send out Amy's background, along with everything I found two years ago."

Silence.

Then Vera laughed—short, carrying something Kyle couldn't read.

"Raven," she said, "you're more interesting than the stories."

"Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock, Seattle airport, hangar 17. Someone will be waiting."

The call ended.

Kyle set his phone on the table and pulled out a key from the drawer. A key to a safety deposit box at a Portland bank. Inside was everything he'd risked his life to find two years ago.

If he didn't come back tomorrow, that stuff would appear where it needed to be, right on schedule.

He lay down and closed his eyes.

Downstairs, Amy's sleep talk came again.

He turned to face the wall. Inside his sleeve, the folded drawing pressed against the names on his arm. The paper edge was soft, warm.

Like body heat.