“I’m a bioinformatician,” he whispered to a trembling woman. “Play along.”
Maverick’s jaw tightened. Fenris. He’d trained with him. Laughed with him. Then watched him burn a safe house in Prague with three fellow agents inside. Fenris didn't do hostage negotiations. He did theater. Geneva was a silver scar in the pre-dawn rain. Maverick didn’t use the front entrance. He went in through the sub-level helium recycling vents—a route only someone who had studied the IGI’s architectural schematics for six months in a safe house outside Vladivostok would know. maverick igi
The Geneva police stormed the gallery two minutes later. Hostages were freed. The Alpha Strain was secured. Fenris was led away in a neural restraint collar, still staring at his broken arm. “I’m a bioinformatician,” he whispered to a trembling
“One hundred and twelve civilians. Eight security personnel, KIA. Their leader is a ghost from your past. Code name: Fenris.” He’d trained with him
Fenris stared at his own dead hand. For one second, he looked almost human. Almost sorry.
“Good work, IGI. They’re calling you a maverick again.”