Ch.21: The Cleaner

The boat sliced through the black water of the harbor, the engine a low, muffled thrum. I sat in the stern, clutching the stun baton, staring at the back of the man who was both a mercenary and my long-lost uncle.

Silas—Uncle Jack—piloted the craft with an ease that spoke of a lifetime of violence. The scars on his neck gleamed in the faint moonlight.

"We're five minutes out," he said over the wind. "Check your gear."

I checked the harness he had strapped me into. I checked the waterproofing on the comms unit. I checked the shard in my pocket.

"Why didn't you come back?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the engine. "After the war. Why did you let us think you were dead?"

Silas didn't turn around. "Because Jack Vance died in the desert. Silas was born in a black site. And Silas wasn't the kind of man you bring home to Sunday dinner."

"Dad mourned you," I said, anger flaring. "He kept your medals in a box under his bed."

"And look where it got him," Silas said, his voice hard. "Dead of a heart attack at fifty, working himself into an early grave to pay off debts he didn't owe. I couldn't save him, Harper. Just like I couldn't save Liam."

He throttled down. The Gilded Cage loomed ahead—a massive, rusted skeleton rising out of the mist. It looked like a dead leviathan.

"But you can save me?" I asked.

"I can try."

He steered the boat under the massive support pillars of the rig. It was darker here, the shadows thick and oily.

"Listen to me," Silas said, killing the engine. We drifted toward a service ladder covered in barnacles. "Julian trusts you. I don't know why. He doesn't trust anyone."

"He needs me," I said. "I'm his lawyer."

"He has a thousand lawyers," Silas corrected. "He could buy a small country with his legal retainer. But he chose you. He gave you the shard. Do you know what that means?"

"It means he's desperate."

"It means he's compromised," Silas said, turning to face me. "Julian Vane is a calculator. He weighs risk and reward in nanoseconds. Giving you that key? That's not a calculation. That's a gamble."

He grabbed the ladder, holding the boat steady.

"He watches you on the feeds," Silas continued. "When you're in court. When you're sleeping in the cell. He doesn't look at you like an asset. He looks at you like..."

He trailed off.

"Like what?"

"Like he's afraid he's going to break you."

I felt a flush heat my cheeks, despite the freezing spray.

"He's a sociopath," I said, repeating the mantra I used to keep my distance.

"Is he?" Silas asked. "Or is that just what he needs the world to believe so they stop trying to hurt him?"

He looked up at the rig.

"He told me to prioritize your extraction," Silas said. "If the mission goes south, if we get pinned down... I'm supposed to get you out. Even if it means leaving the drive. Even if it means leaving Mia."

I stared at him. "He said that?"

"Explicitly. 'If it's a choice between the evidence and the girl, save the girl.'"

Silas shook his head.

"I've worked for Julian for five years. He's never prioritized a person over data. Never."

He looked me in the eye.

"He thinks you're different, Harper. Don't prove him wrong."

He gestured to the ladder.

"Now climb. We have three minutes before the drone barge docks."

I grabbed the cold, wet rungs. I climbed.

But as I pulled myself up into the darkness of the rig, Silas's words echoed in my mind louder than the wind.

*Save the girl.*

Julian Vane, the man who believed in nothing but math, had changed the equation. And I didn't know if that made me safer, or if it just meant we were both going to die.