Chapter 168: Steel Against My Throat.
The capital moved past the windows in a steady blur of glass towers and streaking taillights. Becky drove with focused calm, left hand resting lightly on the wheel, right hand on her thigh. The two swords in the back rattled faintly with every turn, metal kissing leather.
I slipped Mary Stam’s photograph back into the envelope and leaned against the seat, watching the city slide by. Sunlight glinted off windshields and building facades, casting fleeting reflections across my face.
Mary Stam was part of my life. One of the few reasons I was still breathing.
"We’re here," Becky said, pulling the car over to the curb with a soft crunch of tires. She stayed seated for a long moment, engine ticking as it cooled, her gaze locked on the weathered building ahead, its faded brick facade cracked and overgrown with thin vines crawling up the side.
"You okay?" she asked, her voice steady but tight.
"Yeah," I said.
She exhaled slowly, shoulders rising and falling. "We need to be careful today. We’ve tried arresting Mary twice already. Both times she slipped right through our fingers like smoke. She’s a hard target."
"I can see how devoted you are to this," I said. "You really blended in."
"Blended in where?" she asked, reaching for the door handle and then freezing halfway.
"The walls," I said. "For a second I thought you’d grown up inside them."
Becky pulled the door shut again with a solid thud and turned to face me fully. Her eyes were sharp, shadowed by something deep and unresolved, the afternoon light carving hard lines across her face.
"You don’t get it, do you?" she said, her voice dropping low.
"No. Tell me."
"That woman is an outlaw," she said, jaw tight. "She’s been tearing apart the peace inside the walls for years—ripping it open like old scars."
"That’s exactly what I’m talking about," I replied. "Everything comes back to the walls with you. We’re both outsiders here. Remember that."
Becky held my gaze, the air between us thick. "This isn’t about the walls. This is about basic humanity. That woman can kill you without blinking."
"No, she can’t," I said.
She didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant hum of the city and the faint creak of leather as she shifted in her seat.
"Do you actually know anything about Mary Stam?" she asked finally.
"Yeah," I said. "She’s a good woman."
Becky let out a short, bitter laugh, nothing like the easy, warm one I’d heard yesterday. It cut through the car like a blade.
"You don’t know a damn thing about her," she said, almost to herself. Then quieter, eyes distant: "Mary Stam didn’t grow up inside the walls."
That caught me off guard.
I studied her face, tight lines around her mouth, the flicker of old pain in her eyes. Danny’s last name—Stam—echoed in my head, along with the masked agents from the last attempt and the different weight Becky carried on this mission.
There’s history here I don’t have yet.
"Just work with me on this," Becky said, her hand already moving toward the sword in the back. "We go up there, we bring her in. You have no idea what kind of evil she’s capable of."
I let her words settle, heavy in my chest.
"Okay," I said.
She stepped out of the car, the door swinging wide with a metallic groan. I followed, boots hitting the cracked pavement. The building loomed in front of us, its second-floor windows dark and watchful, shadows clinging to the corners like secrets.
Mary Stam was up there.
***
The elevator hummed around us. My reflection in the polished metal wall showed a face calmer than I felt.
The doors opened on the second floor with a tired ding. A long, dimly lit hallway stretched ahead, lined with numbered doors and faded carpet that swallowed most of the sound. Becky moved first, hand hovering near the hilt of her sword. I fell in beside her, boots quiet on the worn floor.
Room 306. Becky stopped just short of it.
"Watch my back," she whispered.
She pressed her palm flat against the wooden door. The surface softened instantly under her touch, turning spongy and yielding like warm clay. She pushed it open without a sound.
Then she crouched and touched the floor just inside. The carpet rippled outward in slow waves, transforming beneath our feet into soft, matte-black rubber that swallowed every footstep completely. She slipped in. I followed.
The apartment was dimly lit. Photographs were pinned across every wall, dozens of them. Surveillance shots taken from rooftops and alleyways, candid images of people in crowds, printed maps crisscrossed with red string and thumbtacks connecting locations like a spider’s web of obsession. The specific, meticulous organization of someone tracking something very carefully.
From the other room came the sound of running water, steady, uninterrupted. She was here.
Becky closed the door behind us with a soft click and placed both hands on the nearest wall. A thin metallic sheen spread from her palms like liquid mercury, racing across the walls, floor, and ceiling with a faint, cold gleam. Iron. It sealed the entire apartment in an impenetrable skin.
"No shadow walking out of this," she said quietly. "Not this time."
She drew her sword, holding it low and ready, and moved toward the bedroom door. "Careful, Bram."
I followed close behind. The bedroom was in disarray, clothes scattered across the unmade bed, still warm from recent use. The bathroom door stood slightly ajar ahead, the sound of running water louder now. Thin wisps of steam curled out through the gap, carrying the faint scent of soap and damp skin.
"Mary Stam," Becky called, voice steady.
The water stopped instantly. The sudden silence felt heavier than the sound.
Becky started toward the bathroom door. I placed a firm hand on her shoulder, fingers pressing into the leather of her jacket.
"Let me," I whispered.
She looked at me for a long second, eyes searching mine, then gave a single tight nod and stepped back, sword still raised and ready.
I crossed to the bathroom door. Warm steam brushed against my face, thick and damp, as I reached for the handle.
"Mary," I said softly.
The silence on the other side was absolute.
I pushed the door open slowly. The hinges made no sound. Thick clouds of steam rolled out, swirling around my shoulders and chest like living fog as I stepped inside.
Then I felt the knife.
Cold steel pressed directly against the side of my neck, the edge biting just enough to promise blood if I moved wrong. A single drop of water slid down the blade and traced a freezing line across my skin.
I froze.
Mary Stam stood naked in front of me, body still glistening from the shower. Water streamed down her shoulders, over the curves of her breasts, and along the taut lines of her stomach.
Her dark hair clung wet to her neck and back. Her eyes, sharp, focused, and completely unafraid, locked onto mine. The knife in her hand didn’t tremble. Not even a fraction.
She tilted her head slightly, water dripping from her jaw, eyes narrowing.
"Abram," she said, voice low.
