“What did you mean,” he said through gritted teeth, “when you said her worth as an asset?”
Stell cleared his throat. “I’ve given her a mission. A chance to succeed where you have failed.”
Eli stilled. No. The open file. The unsolved case. Victor.
“The hunter is mine,” he growled.
“You’ve had two years,” said Stell. “Perhaps it’s time for fresh eyes.”
Eli didn’t realize he’d approached the fiberglass until he slammed his fist against it.
This time, the gesture wasn’t calculated. It was pure rage, a moment of violent emotion turned to violent action. Pain flashed through him, and the wall hummed in warning, but Eli’s hand was already falling away.
Stell’s mouth twitched, a grim smile. “I’ll leave you to your work.”
Eli watched the director go until the wall went white, and then he turned and slumped back against it, sliding to the floor.
All of his patience, his subtle pressures. The ground beneath him shuddered, threatened to break. One misstep, and it would crumble, and he would lose Victor and Marcella both, and with them, justice, closure, and any hope of freedom. It might already be too late.
He studied the back of his hand, where a single smear of blood marred the knuckles.
“How many will die for the sake of his pride?” mused Victor.
Eli looked up and saw the phantom standing over him again.
He shook his head. “Stell would rather let the city burn than admit that we are on the same side.”
Victor stared at the wall as if it were still a window. “He doesn’t know how patient you are,” he said. “Doesn’t know you like I do.”
Eli cleaned the blood from his hand.
“No,” he said softly. “No one ever has.”