The implications hit Finch like a physical blow. By saving him, Kate had not just stopped a kidnapping. She had prevented the theft of one of the most powerful technological weapons on the planet. And in doing so, she had revealed herself to an enemy that was more powerful and relentless than she could possibly imagine. Argus International would not just see her as a loose end. They would see her as an enemy operator, a threat that needed to be neutralized with extreme prejudice.
His surveillance team, after weeks of painstaking work, finally got a hit. A facial-recognition camera on a city bus in Queens tagged a woman matching Kate’s profile. They tracked her to a dilapidated apartment building. Finch knew he had to warn her. This was no longer just about a debt of gratitude. He had dragged her back into the world she had fought so hard to escape. Her past was catching up with her. But it was his present that was going to get her killed. He got in his car, Peterson in the driver’s seat. There was no security detail this time. This was a conversation he needed to have alone.
The building in Queens smelled of damp concrete and boiled cabbage. It was a world away from the perfumed air of the Gilded Cage. Alistair Finch, dressed down in jeans and a simple jacket, felt more out of place here than he had ever felt in a foreign boardroom. Peterson waited in the car, a discreet presence at the end of the block. Finch found her apartment, number 4B, at the end of a dimly lit hallway. The door was old, the paint peeling. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the wood. What could he possibly say to her? Thank you for saving my life. And by the way, I’ve brought a corporate war to your doorstep. He knocked. The sound was flat and dead in the narrow hall. For a long moment, there was only silence. He was about to knock again when he heard a faint click. The sound of a deadbolt being disengaged. The door opened a few inches, held by a chain. One of Kate’s eyes appeared in the gap, regarding him with cold suspicion. She looked different. Her hair was cut shorter, dyed a mousy brown. She wore no makeup, and her clothes were plain, designed to make her blend in, to be forgotten. But her eyes were the same. Sharp, analytical, and wary.
“What do you want, Finch?” Her voice was a low rasp. “I need to talk to you,” he said, his own voice sounding strained. “It’s important. It’s about the men who attacked me. Who attacked us.” She was silent for a few seconds, her eyes scanning the hallway behind him. He knew she was checking for threats, for backup, for any sign of a trap. Finally, she seemed to decide he was alone. The chain slid free, and the door opened. “You have five minutes,” she said, stepping aside to let him in.