Everything But Safe

Chapter 1

Lena

The lights in briefing rooms are always too bright—cold fluorescence designed to expose flaws, amplify silence, and remind you that privacy is an illusion. I’ve learned not to blink.

A green progress bar pulses across the screen in front of me. DECRYPTING... 71%. The room is dead silent, save for the low hum of electric security. Even the air feels filtered of emotion—just the way I like it.

I sit with my hands resting lightly on the table, spine straight, breathing even. Heart rate: calm. Focus: absolute. No nerves. No attachments. No room for error.

The door hisses open behind me.

Maya doesn’t knock. She never does. She walks in like she owns the world—or at least the part of it where black ops aren’t theoretical. She’s wearing a fitted black blazer, wireless tablet tucked under one arm, and a coffee cup in the other that reads: Trust No One.

Fitting. Very fitting.

“You’re two minutes late,” I murmur, without looking away from the screen.

“Hell froze over,” she replies dryly, setting the tablet down in front of me. “Grab your coat.”

I glance at the screen just as the final line of data finishes decrypting. The header flashes in bold red:

OPERATION: GLASSWIRE
PRIORITY: SHADOW-ALPHA

I raise an eyebrow. Alpha class. Embedded asset deployment. No backup. No margin for error. The kind of mission that ends with silence and sealed files, even if it succeeds.

“I assume this is the part where you tell me I’m going undercover in some backwoods hellhole filled with paranoid warlords and cheap vodka,” I say.

Maya smirks. “Not quite. This time you get to play in the corporate sandbox.”

She taps the tablet, and a series of documents unfurl across the screen. Contracts, personnel rosters, asset maps. One name is highlighted throughout.

Donovan Security Group.

“Private defense firm. Tactical consulting. Elite-level government contracts. On the surface, they look clean,” Maya says. “But there’s a leak. High-level. Ongoing. Classified intel’s been bleeding out for months. Not just files—live data streams, satellite paths, encrypted field agent reports. Stuff that could get people killed.”

I scroll through the documents, eyes moving faster than most people read. Every piece of evidence tells the same story: someone inside DSG is playing both sides. Selling secrets. Maybe worse.

Maya’s tone sharpens. “You’re going in as Dr. Sloane Pierce—cybersecurity analyst with a record so clean it squeaks. You’ll be embedded as a senior consultant brought in by one of DSG’s board partners. You’ll have access, time, and cover. What you won’t have is backup.”

I nod once. This isn’t my first shadow-op. And it won’t be my last.

Maya pauses. Then, like a blade unsheathed, she says, “There’s one more thing. Kael Donovan.”

“Who the hell is that?”

The name lands heavy between us.

She slides a profile photo across the screen. Steel-gray eyes. Brutal jawline. Intensity like a pressure chamber. Holy hell.

“Founder. Former Navy SEAL. Known for being... ruthlessly observant. He doesn’t like strangers. He doesn’t trust easily. And if he senses you’re not who you say you are…”

“He’ll gut me with a look,” I finish, studying his face.

Maya’s voice drops an octave. “He’ll gut your mission. And walk away clean.”

I say nothing. I’ve taken down cartel leaders and foreign agents with smiles on their faces and blood on their hands. But something about Kael Donovan already feels like a variable I can’t predict.

Maya taps twice on the tablet and the documents vanish.

“No attachments, Lena. You go in. Find the mole. Extract the proof. And get out.”

I meet her gaze and say the words like I mean them. “I never get emotionally involved.”

She snorts softly. “That’s what you said last time.”

I don’t answer. Because I don’t lie to Maya. And this time, I need to believe it.

***

Back in my apartment, I move through the checklist like muscle memory.

The new ID badge snaps into place against the lapel of my slate-gray blazer. The name reads Dr. Sloane Pierce, printed in sterile Helvetica, no title, no backstory. Just the kind of ambiguity that works in places with too many secrets and not enough time.

I press my thumb to the encrypted biometric tablet Maya gave me. It flashes green. My access codes load, including a limited set of files tied to DSG’s internal network. The rest, I’ll have to navigate blind.

I open the wardrobe, ignoring the things that belong to Lena Monroe. They’re too personal—too soft. Instead, I pull a sleek, black carry-on from the top shelf, already packed with tailored suits, clean tech, encrypted thumb drives, and a backup earpiece linked directly to Maya’s private channel.

My passport, one of three, is already in my pocket. The flight is wheels-up in less than an hour.

The drive to the private airstrip is uneventful. I sit in the back of a black SUV with tinted windows and think about nothing. Thinking leads to attachment. Attachment leads to mistakes. I learned that lesson once. I don’t need the scars to remember it.

The plane is waiting when I arrive—sleek, quiet, efficient. A single agent nods me through security with practiced indifference. No fanfare. No record.

I climb the steps without looking back.

Inside, the cabin is dim, cool, lined in muted leather and steel. The kind of transport that flies billionaires and war criminals with the same discretion. I sit by the window and open my tablet again, bringing up the last file.

Kael Donovan’s too-handsome face fills the screen.

The photo is standard: clean lighting, squared shoulders, unblinking eyes. But even in stillness, he looks like a man you don’t surprise twice.

There’s a thin scar along his jaw. It doesn’t show in the agency photo, but Maya mentioned it—SEAL op gone wrong. Two men dead. Kael walked away with blood on his hands and silence in his throat.

He built DSG from the ashes of that mission, and he’s been guarding it like a kingdom ever since.

He’s the kind of man who doesn’t ask twice. Who doesn’t need to.

I close the file.

The hum of the engines vibrates beneath my feet. The plane starts to taxi.

You go in. You find the mole. You get out. Maya’s voice echoes in my head.

And you don’t get emotionally involved.

Right. Because that always works out.

I lean back and close my eyes, letting the hum of takeoff blur everything out. Kael Donovan may be sharp. He may be dangerous. But I’ve walked through fire before.

The question isn’t whether I can survive him. It’s whether he can survive me.