She Picked It Up Without a Word

I stopped three feet from her.

She looked at me from under the hood. Her eyes were gray — not soft gray, not the gray of something gentle. The gray of a storm front that has made up its mind and is not interested in your opinion of it.

Nothing about her expression changed when I stopped in front of her.

"Name," I said.

"Ava Cross."

Her voice was flat. Not nervous. Not performing flatness to cover nervousness. Quiet in the specific way of people who have spent enough years around violence that sound becomes a tool they use only when it is the right tool.

"Rank?"

"Civilian contractor. Attached to NATO advisory unit."

I waited. Nothing more came.

"Transfer papers."

She reached into her jacket and produced a single folded document. The letterhead was legitimate. The authorization codes were legitimate. The signature at the bottom carried a name I did not recognize and a classification designation that told me I would not be getting a background check through any normal channel.

Morrow leaned close. "Sir, Tate tried to pull her up in the base system while you were walking over. Nothing came back."

"Database issue."

"Query went through fine," Morrow said. "Just nothing on the other end. Like the profile doesn't exist."

Tate lifted his voice again.

"And the tattoo, Commander. She's got a tattoo."

Ava did not look at Tate. Did not tense. Did not behave in any way that acknowledged he had spoken, which made him noticeably less comfortable than a reaction would have.