Red Six

Chapter One | 1

On the clearest night of summer, in a quiet London alley, a woman lies dying in my arms. I shift slightly and drop my head, drag my stare from the stars to her face. My knee scrapes against the concrete, gathering dust in wounds, but I ignore it as the woman takes another shuddering breath. I've done all I can.

"I'm so sorry." The words are only whispers, but they carry in the wind. I swallow down the tightness in my throat. "I'm so sorry that I couldn't save you." With one hand, I brush stray hairs from her face, then I press two feather-light fingers to her temple. "Peace," I murmur.

The woman's eyes flutter, and her frantic gaze calms. After two more breaths, she slips away. I close my eyes along with hers and take a moment to mourn, because she was young and she died in a stranger's arms.

It's impossible to pretend here, so close to the ground, that anything could be different. That the world could have peace. That I could be normal. That any of this could be normal.

That for once I wouldn't be alone.

As good at it as I may be, in the face of dirt and crimson even I can't pretend. I can only tuck those thoughts away in a box, leave the woman's body on the ground, and stand, mask and hood flipped back up. Alley walls glitch around me as the mask renders a face over my own.

I have work to finish tonight.

The footsteps that hesitated at the corner of the alley a second ago resume, and a woman comes into view. An English agent, undoubtedly.

The streetlight ripples over blonde hair, high cheekbones, and eyes like a summer-sun gilded forest. I gasp.

That's not an English agent.

"Kaitlyn?"

She only frowns and pulls out her gun. "Who are you?" Her accent is Cockney, not American.

I move on reflex, and in a moment the woman's gun rests in my palm. My head spins, words echoing over and over. Kaitlyn, Kaitlyn, Kaitlyn. I thread my left hand through my hair, giving it a light tug. Think logically. It can't be Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn's dead. The gun shakes-or, no, that's my hand.

I scan the agent's face. Her freckles don't fit. The expression isn't right. She has no scar.

It's not Kaitlyn.

I take a deep breath, set the gun on the ground, and nod once to the woman before I spin and walk away. She makes no move to follow.

Two blocks from the alley, I switch my comm back on. "Three, tell me who that was."

The AI's voice responds in my ear immediately. "Eleanor Wilson, known as Kira Green, twenty-four-year-old British intelligence agent. Specializes in secure transportations for field ops."

"She looked like Kaitlyn." I fiddle with the edge of my b-jacket, my brow furrowing. "She looked just like Kaitlyn. What if it was-"

"Ara!" Three stops me mid-turn. "Facial analyses indicate that woman is not Kaitlyn Smith. Kaitlyn is dead. Please, remember your mission."

The mission. Right.

Sara Lewis has to die.

I run the facts through again. She's a barista, works at the little pub where Duke Street Hill and Borough High intersect. It's been a convenient place for gathering information-serve the right man whisky that's a bit too strong and you'll have a few state secrets on your hands. The process has become a bit too convenient, though. Sarah Lewis now holds enough of a reputation that she can't simply up and move away, and that's what makes my job difficult.