Every crate was stamped with English words in familiar green paint and a UK insignia. With a racing heart, Harry took a dozen pictures and pinged the GPS coordinates. Just as quickly as he had entered, he let himself out and covered several blocks before he trusted that no one followed him.

He stopped under a cork oak and texted the pictures to his boss before he speed-dialed the SIS building.

“Officer Thatcher,” Nigel answered.

“Nigel, I found Nheshal’s cache. Photos and GPS coordinates should reach you momentarily.”

“And?”

“They belong to us.”

Chapter 2

Thud. Thump. Thud. Thump. Elise’s trainers struck the treadmill’s rubber surface in quick succession. Needle-like pain stabbed her hips with every stride, and the tip of her long red ponytail dripped sweat. She pressed her lips together and kept going.

Electrical cords flapped and bounced with each step, recording her vitals on the monitor beside her. Nigel Thatcher, her boss, stood next to the exercise device, his feet shoulder width apart, arms folded, and eyes on the recorder.

Elise clamped her jaw and ignored him. Instead, she focused on the gray cinderblock wall, where paint had failed to breach the porous holes. With a whir and click of internal gears, the treadmill’s incline increased.

Tucking her chin, Elise lengthened her pace, her shoes barely touching the rotating belt, her stride matching the pre-programmed cycle. Her breath rasped, and dark spots danced in front of her eyes. If Nigel didn’t make it stop soon, her vision would cut out altogether.

She ignored her body’s warnings. She had to make up her time. Too much depended on the outcome of these tests.

Six months ago, she could have run circles around almost anyone at MI6. Today . . . well, today was another story.

The wall in front of her blurred just as the cycle slowed to a walk. Sucking in sweet air, she held on to the arm rests and slackened her pace until the machine ground to a halt. If Elise had been alone, she would have slid to the floor.

“What’s next?” she asked Nigel, using the last of her strength to appear unaffected.

Nigel didn’t respond; he simply handed her a towel.

“Thanks.” She attempted to read his expression, but it was impossible to interpret his thoughts.

Everything about Nigel was misleading. His hair was gray. His eyes were gray. His height was unremarkable. His build, while not scrawny, did not carry the bulk of heavy muscles. Though he did not stand out in a crowd, Officer Nigel Thatcher was one of the best spymasters in the business—a living legend in all branches of HM Secret Intelligence Service.

“Core next,” Nigel said.

Elise repressed a groan and fantasized about shooting him with her MI6 issue, a Walther PPK/s, and doubted she would experience guilt for doing so.