Page 89 of Her Mercenary

“No. I’ve been working with them for decades.”

“With them, as in undercover? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck, Roman. Astor will have you killed if this thing blows up.”

“I’ll kill myself if it does. Trust me on this.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end.

Then Ryder asked, “Does this have anything to do with the box that was just delivered to the office?”

“What box?”

“Yeah. This morning, a box came for you.”

“From who?”

“Didn’t say.”

“From where?”

“Ireland.”

My heart skipped a beat. “Open it.”

“I’m halfway to the garage. Do you want—”

“Go back and open it now.”

I began pacing as Ryder retraced his steps back into the office.

My heart pounded as I listened to the unsheathing of his knife, the rip through the packaging tape, the opening of the box.

“It’s,” he said, digging through the contents, “just a bunch of old shit ...”

“What old shit?”

“There’s a plastic bag of old pictures, an old watch, a jewelry box, a set of rusty keys ...”

Memories barreled into my head like a freight train.

My mother’s gold watch, her jewelry box, the keys to her old red truck.

My mother’s things.

Freya.

He continued. “There’s a note taped on the jewelry box.”

“What does it say?”

“Hang on.”

“Come on, dude ...”

“Okay, it says,” and he read ...