The rain came down in sheets over Singapore, turning the city's neon-bright skyline into something resembling a watercolor left out in the storm. Appropriate, Theo thought distantly. Everything bleeding together until you couldn't tell where one thing ended and another began.
He'd been on this rooftop for six hours. Before that, a different rooftop. Before that, a hotel lobby, a hawker center, a construction site with a clear line of sight to her apartment building. Seventy-two hours of watching Teresa Agnes move through her life, cataloging her patterns, documenting her vulnerabilities, preparing to make a recommendation about whether she should continue breathing.
The rain soaked through his jacket—had been soaking through for the past forty minutes. He didn't move. Discomfort was data. You processed it, filed it, moved on. The alternative was allowing your body to dictate your decisions, and that's how you ended up in a pine box with a flag draped over it and three people at your funeral who felt obligated to attend.
Thompson had complained about the rain. Kandahar, 2019. "Can't see shit in this, Four. We should abort." They hadn't aborted. Thompson took a bullet through the throat twenty minutes later because he'd been distracted, had shifted position to wipe water from his scope. Theo had watched him bleed out, had timed it—four minutes, seventeen seconds—and then completed the mission because that's what you did. You processed the data. You filed it. You kept moving.
Across the street, the Raffles Hotel glowed like a colonial-era jewel someone had polished too many times. Teresa Agnes was in the Long Bar, third table from the left, drinking something clear with lime. She'd been there for twenty-three minutes. Her contact was late.
Theo adjusted his scope. The restaurant's windows were floor-to-ceiling, the architect's gift to surveillance. He could see her clearly: late twenties, professionally dressed, maintaining the careful posture of someone who'd learned to occupy space without taking too much of it. Her phone sat face-down on the table. She checked her watch. Three times in two minutes. Nervous but controlling it. Good.
His jaw tightened. Irrelevant physical response. He ignored it.
The mission parameters had been clear. Teresa Agnes, CEO of Agnes Group, eight hundred billion in assets, currently investigating her father's death. Intelligence suggested she'd uncovered connections to The Order of Reckoning. Assessment required: threat level, knowledge depth, elimination necessity. Observe. Document. Report. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary.
Theo had been watching people for a living long enough to know when someone was drowning. Teresa Agnes was drowning, had been drowning for a year, the kind of drowning where you're still technically breathing but the water's already in your lungs. He recognized it because he'd been drowning for twelve years and people kept being surprised when he showed up to work.
She took another sip of her drink. Lime, not lemon. He added it to the file. Preferences mattered. They told you how someone made decisions, what they valued, where they'd break when pressure was applied. Teresa Agnes preferred lime, wore minimal jewelry, kept her phone within reach but face-down—someone who wanted connection but feared it. Classic grief response. Her father had died one year ago. Plane crash. Except it wasn't a plane crash, it was a bomb, and she'd spent twelve months teaching herself tradecraft from YouTube videos and library books, which would have been admirable if it wasn't going to get her killed.
The rain intensified. Theo's scope fogged slightly. He adjusted, muscle memory from a thousand hours in worse conditions. Yemen had been worse. Libya had been worse. Afghanistan had been worse right up until Martinez stopped being alive and started being a problem Theo had to solve with a folding shovel and three hours before sunrise.
He pushed the thought away. Data processed. Filed. Moving on.
A man entered the Long Bar. Late forties, British, moving with the careful precision of someone who'd had training. Marcus Webb. MI6, Far East desk, currently assigned to anti-corruption task force. Also currently feeding information to a civilian with no security clearance, which meant either he was remarkably stupid or remarkably desperate. Theo's money was on desperate. Desperate people made mistakes, and mistakes created opportunities, and opportunities were how you completed missions when the mission had stopped making sense somewhere around your third dead teammate.
Webb sat across from Teresa. No handshake. Professional distance. He slid something across the table—flash drive, probably—and started talking. Theo couldn't read lips through rain-streaked glass, but he didn't need to. Body language told the story. Webb: tense, checking exits, fingers drumming. Teresa: leaning forward, intense focus, hand reaching for the flash drive before Webb was finished talking. Eager. Hungry for information. The kind of hunger that made you stupid.
His uncle James had taught him chess when he was eight. "Every piece you lose changes the game, Tobias. You have to see not just where the pieces are, but where they'll be. Where they have to be." James had been good at chess. It hadn't saved him when The Order put two bullets in his chest outside a Leeds restaurant. Theo had been sixteen. He'd learned then that you could see every move coming and still lose. The trick was understanding that losing was data too. You processed it. Filed it. Moved on.
Except he hadn't moved on from James. Or from his mother, who'd taken a bottle of pills when Theo was seventeen because living with the fear of The Order had finally become more unbearable than not living at all. Or from Thompson, Martinez, Parker—his entire team, gone, one by one, turning into data points in a file that kept getting longer while Theo kept getting better at not feeling anything about it.
The meeting below lasted seven minutes. Webb left first, walking too fast, checking behind him too obviously. Amateur hour. Teresa remained, studying the flash drive like it might contain answers to questions she hadn't thought to ask yet. She was wrong. It contained more questions. It always did.
Theo's phone vibrated. Text from Jackson, his handler: *Status?*
He typed one-handed, scope still trained on Teresa: *Subject remains low threat. Recommendation: continue observation.*
Jackson's response came immediately: *Orders are assess/eliminate if necessary. You're dragging this out.*
Theo didn't respond. Jackson was right, which was why Theo was ignoring him. Three days ago, his recommendation would have been simple: Teresa Agnes knew too much, had too many resources, was asking too many questions. Acceptable collateral. Operational necessity. One bullet, problem solved, move to next assignment.
But he'd spent seventy-two hours watching her, and the data wasn't supporting the conclusion he'd started with. She wasn't reckless—careful, actually, in ways that suggested someone had taught her or she'd taught herself. She checked her surroundings. She varied her routes. She maintained digital security. Not military-level, but competent. More competent than she should be.
And she was kind. Stupid observation. Irrelevant to mission parameters. But he'd watched her buy lunch for a homeless woman outside her apartment building. Watched her stay late in her office, lights on until 3 AM, working alone because she'd given her security team the night off. Watched her visit her father's grave and sit there for an hour, talking to a headstone like it might answer back.
You couldn't file that data easily. It stuck.
Below, Teresa paid her bill and stood. She moved well—not military, but not civilian either. Someone who'd learned to be aware of space, of exits, of potential threats. She checked her phone, checked the room, checked her watch. Then she walked out into Singapore's rain-soaked night, and Theo tracked her through his scope until she disappeared under the hotel's awning.
He should have stayed on the rooftop. That was protocol. Observe from distance, maintain separation, avoid direct contact unless absolutely necessary. But he'd been doing this for twelve years, and protocol assumed you were still operating with standard human reactions, and Theo had filed those away so long ago he wasn't sure he could find them if he looked.
He broke down his equipment in forty seconds—scope, rifle, comms pack, everything fitting into a tactical bag that looked like a photographer's kit from ten feet. Urban camouflage. Be what they expect to see. The rain helped; nobody looked twice at someone trying to get out of a downpour.
The fire escape was slick. He took it anyway, controlled descent, boots finding purchase on wet metal through muscle memory that didn't require conscious thought. Ground level. Three blocks to where Teresa would emerge. He could make it in ninety seconds if he moved.
He moved.
Singapore at night in the rain was a study in contrasts—ancient shophouses next to glass towers, hawker centers bleeding food smells into air thick with moisture, tourists and locals mixing in a humid press of humanity that made surveillance both easier and harder. Easier because you could disappear into crowds. Harder because so could your target.
Theo rounded the corner onto Beach Road, positioning himself across the street from Raffles. Teresa would exit through the main entrance—she always did, preferred visibility to concealment, which was going to get her killed—and then she'd head north toward her apartment in Bukit Timah. Three kilometers. She'd take a taxi. Sometimes she walked. Never the same twice. Smart.
She emerged exactly when his mental countdown hit zero. He'd timed her patterns well. Four months of training yourself couldn't overcome a lifetime of habits, and Teresa Agnes was a creature of subtle habits. She checked her phone immediately upon exiting. She looked left, then right, then left again. She pulled her jacket tighter against rain that was probably warm by most standards but felt cold when you'd been standing in air conditioning.
Then she started walking.
Not north. East.
Toward the alley.
Theo's chest tightened. Cold settled in his gut. Not fear—he'd processed that years ago—but recognition. The kind of recognition that came from watching too many people make the last mistake they'd ever make.
He was moving before he'd consciously decided to move, crossing Beach Road against traffic, horns blaring, rain making everything slick and uncertain. She was fifty meters ahead. The alley was thirty meters from her current position.
Twenty meters.
He could see them now. Three men, street clothes, moving with purpose. Not muggers. Wrong body language. Operatives. Order operatives, had to be, which meant they'd been tracking her the same way he had, and now they were moving to collection or elimination, and either way Teresa Agnes had maybe ninety seconds left.
Ten meters to the alley entrance.
His hand found the knife in his belt. Not the gun—too loud, too public, too many cameras. The knife was quiet. Efficient. Messy, but you cleaned up after. That's what you did. You made the mess, you cleaned it up, you filed it, you moved on.
Teresa turned into the alley.
Forty-seven seconds until they reached her. He'd clocked their walking speed, her position, the distance to the dead end she didn't know was there because she'd never been in the alley before. He had. He'd surveyed every location she frequented, every route she took, every place she might go. That was the job. Know more than they do. Predict better. React faster.
But reaction required decision, and decision required choosing which protocol to follow, and his protocols were at war with each other because the mission was observe and report, not intervene, definitely not reveal himself, absolutely not compromise his position for a target who was supposed to be acceptable collateral if elimination became necessary.
Thirty-two seconds.
He was running.
The rain turned everything into a grey watercolor, the same bleeding edges as before, boundaries dissolving between what he was supposed to do and what his body had decided to do without consulting him. Thompson had said once, three hours before he died, "You ever notice how you move before you think? Like your body knows something your brain hasn't figured out yet?" Theo had filed that observation. Processed it. Hadn't thought about it until now, sprinting through Singapore rain toward three men who were about to hurt someone he'd been ordered to assess for elimination.
The alley was narrow, high walls on both sides, the kind of dead end that looked like an escape route until you were committed. Tourist mistake. Teresa had made it. She'd been smart for seventy-two hours, and now she'd made one mistake, and one mistake was all it took.
The three men were at the alley entrance when Theo reached them.
He didn't slow down.
The first operative never saw him coming. Theo hit him from behind, knife finding the bundle of nerves below the ear, the kind of strike that shut down the body without killing it but came close enough that the distinction was technical. The man dropped. Silent. Efficient.
The second operative turned. Trained reaction. Hand going for weapon. Theo was faster. Had always been faster. Speed was data—reaction time, muscle memory, thousands of hours turning violence into geometry. He closed distance, redirected the weapon draw, brought his knee up into the solar plexus. Hard enough to crack ribs. The operative folded, and Theo put him down with an elbow to the base of the skull.
The third operative had time to react. Drew a weapon—taser, they wanted her alive, interesting data—and aimed for center mass. Theo shifted left, using the second operative's falling body as cover, came up inside the taser's effective range. His knife hand was a blur. Not killing strikes—didn't need to kill them, just needed them to stop being problems for the next several minutes.
Three men down in under ten seconds. Acceptable time. Parker could have done it in seven, but Parker was dead because he'd hesitated once, tried to talk instead of move, and that's what hesitation bought you.
Theo looked up.
Teresa Agnes stood at the far end of the alley, back against a wall, pepper spray in her hand. She'd armed herself. Smart. Pointless against trained operatives, but the thought had been there. Her eyes were wide but focused. Afraid but not panicking. Processing. She was processing the data the same way he did—man appears, three attackers down, what does this mean, what's the next move.
Their eyes met.
He could see her calculating. Friend or foe? Threat or rescue? She'd been hunting The Order for a year. She'd probably imagined this moment. Probably thought she'd be ready for it.
Nobody was ready for it.
Theo straightened. Rain plastered his hair to his skull, ran down his face in cold streams. His hands were bloody—not his blood, didn't matter whose—and the three operatives were groaning, starting to move, which meant he had maybe two minutes before they could report in, and that meant decisions had to be made.
Teresa lowered the pepper spray. Not much. Just enough to signal she wasn't going to spray him immediately. Calculated trust. Or calculated risk assessment. Smart either way.
"Who are you?" she asked. Her voice was steadier than it should have been. Data point: Teresa Agnes had courage or she'd trained herself to fake it convincingly.
Theo didn't answer. He was making calculations. Three operatives meant The Order knew her location. Knew her patterns. Had been tracking her. Which meant he'd missed something in his surveillance, or there was a second team he hadn't accounted for, and either option meant his assessment had been wrong and wrong assessments got people killed.
"I said, who are you?" Louder now. Demanding. Not afraid enough. That would be a problem.
He should walk away. That was protocol. Shouldn't have intervened in the first place. Should definitely not engage in conversation. Should absolutely not compromise his cover identity by revealing anything useful.
His mouth opened. "Someone who just saved your life."
Three words. Irrelevant. True, but irrelevant. He turned to leave.
"Wait." Her voice stopped him. Shouldn't have. But did. "Those men. Who are they?"
"Problems you don't want."
"I'm asking what they are, not whether I want them."
Sharp. He liked that. Filed it immediately. You weren't supposed to like anything about a target. Liking things created attachment. Attachment created hesitation. Hesitation created pine boxes and flags.
He turned back. She'd moved closer. Five meters now. Inside the range where pepper spray became a real threat. She was either brave or stupid, and he'd watched her long enough to know she wasn't stupid.
"They're called The Order of Reckoning," he said. Operational security breach. Jackson would be furious. "They're interested in your investigation."
"How do you know about my investigation?"
"I've been watching you for three days."
Her face changed. Not fear exactly. Something harder. Anger, maybe, or violation, or both. "You've been—" She stopped. Processed. "Then you're either with them or against them."
"Against."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Because if I wanted you dead, you'd be dead."
Factual. Clinical. The only currency he had left. She could believe him or not. Either way, he needed to leave. The operatives were starting to stir. More would come. This intersection of her investigation and his mission had become complicated, and complications were how good operations became disasters.
"I need information," Teresa said.
"No."
"About The Order. About my father's death. About—"
"No." Firmer now. He could see the tactical situation deteriorating. More footsteps. Distant but approaching. Backup or civilians, and either way his window was closing. "You need to leave Singapore. Tonight. Don't go home. Don't contact anyone you know. Disappear."
"I'm not running."
"Then you're dying." He said it the way you'd say water is wet. Observable fact. "Choose quickly."
She stared at him. Processing. He could see the wheels turning—everything she'd worked for, her investigation, her father's memory, the leads she'd developed, all of it requiring her to stay, to push forward, to not run. He understood that. He'd made the same calculation when he was eighteen, had chosen to run toward danger instead of away from it, and twelve years later he was standing in a Singapore alley in the rain having just prevented the murder of a woman he'd been sent to assess for elimination.
Full circle. Poetic. James would have appreciated it.
"Come with me," she said.
"No."
"You said you've been watching me. That means you know things. About them. About what they're planning."
"I know you need to leave. Now."
"Then help me leave. Be my... I don't know. My security. My guide. Whatever you were doing before."
His chest tightened. The cold in his gut spread. This was the complication. This was where you made the choice that defined the operation. Help her and risk everything—his cover, his mission, his carefully maintained separation from anything resembling human connection. Or walk away and know she'd be dead within forty-eight hours because she was good but not good enough, and The Order didn't leave loose ends.
Thompson would have said walk away. Martinez would have said complete the mission. Parker would have said save her because Parker had been soft, had cared about people, and caring had gotten him killed in Kandahar.
But James—James would have asked what the point of all this was if you couldn't save someone who reminded you why you started fighting in the first place.
Theo closed his eyes. Processed. Filed. Made a decision.
"Seventy-two hours," he said. "I give you three days. After that, you're on your own."
He opened his eyes. She was closer now. Three meters. Close enough that he could see the rain on her eyelashes, the set of her jaw, the determination that was going to get her killed or make her dangerous. He couldn't tell which yet.
She held out her hand. "Teresa Agnes."
He looked at her hand. Didn't take it. Physical contact created connection. Connection created complications. Complications created casualties.
"Follow me," he said instead. "Don't trust anyone."
"Not even you?"
He started walking. She'd follow or she wouldn't. Either way, the decision was made. He'd chosen intervention. Chosen complication. Chosen to stop being an observer and become a participant, and somewhere in the back of his mind, filed away with all the other data he couldn't afford to process, a small voice that sounded like James whispered that this was either the best decision he'd made in twelve years or the one that would finally kill him.
"Especially not me," he said without turning around.
Behind him, after a moment's hesitation, he heard her footsteps following. Quick. Keeping pace. Smart.
The rain kept falling. It always did in Singapore. Appropriate, somehow. Everything bleeding together until you couldn't tell where one thing ended and another began. Where observation ended and intervention began. Where clinical assessment ended and something that might have been concern started.
Some decisions you made with your head. Cold. Calculated. Based on data and analysis and twelve years of training that taught you to see people as variables in equations that needed solving.
Some decisions you made with your body before your head caught up. Instinct. Reaction. The part of you that remembered what it meant to be human even when you'd filed away everything else.
Theo didn't know which kind of decision this was.
He suspected it was both.
And that, more than anything else, was what terrified him.