I file it away. Nothing actionable yet.
"Roman?"
"Istanbul footage. Eighty-seven percent gait match." Asher's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Damian's chasing it."
I nod, filing that away too. Roman alive changes the calculus on several operations. Roman dead simplifies things but leaves questions we need answered.
The man in the charcoal suit steps away from the wall. Dark hair with silver at the temples. Mid-forties. He walks like he expects the crowd to part. He doesn't check, doesn't adjust, just moves forward and assumes everyone else will handle it.
That smile stretches wider as he closes the distance.
My weight shifts to the balls of my feet.
Angelina looks up from her phone.
She freezes.
Color drains from her face. White, then nothing. She stops breathing. Three seconds. Four. Her hands shake. It's barely perceptible unless you're looking for it. Then she forces her attention back to her phone with the kind of control that only comes from practice.
That wasn't surprise. That was a trained response. She's seen him before. And whatever happened, she learned to hide her reaction.
The man turns away from her like she's an afterthought. Joins DeLuca's defense team clustered near the conference room doors. Shakes hands. Laughs at something the lead attorney says. Belongs there like he was always meant to be part of this.
Angelina's not looking up from her phone. Won't risk eye contact.
My phone's already in my hand. I snap three photos, angles that will feed cleanly into facial recognition.
Years of noting every threat to her. How did I miss this one?
The same way I missed the breach in Jakarta. Three diplomats dead while I was looking the wrong direction.
Asher follows my gaze, reads the tension in my frame. His eyes narrow as he studies the man now chatting easily with defense counsel.
"New player?"
"Someone she knows."
Angelina hasn't moved. She's staring at her phone like it contains something vital, but her thumb isn't scrolling. Her shoulders are locked at an angle that's going to give her a headache within the hour.
"She's terrifying when she's focused," Asher says.
"That's why we like her."
"We?"
I don't answer. Don't need to.
The man glances back toward her one more time, that smile lingering, before following the defense team into the conference room. The door closes behind them.
Who the fuck are you?
The parking garage is nearly empty at five-thirty, shadows bleeding into weak fluorescent light. Exhaust fumes and old concrete hang in the air. I open the passenger door first—strategic positioning, controlling access points before we leave courthouse grounds.
She slides in without comment, her movements mechanical. She's still pale. Still shaking slightly.
The armor has cracks tonight.
I round the vehicle, checking sightlines. I get in but don't start the engine.