I adjusted my hoodie.
My shoulder throbbed where it had struck the counter, but nothing felt seriously damaged.
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Seventeen years in Special Operations had left me with a fairly accurate understanding of what my body could tolerate.
Cole looked at me again.
This time, there was no smugness.
Only confusion.
Then recognition began forming behind his eyes.
“Chief Vance?” he repeated.
Mercer’s mouth hardened.
“Yes.”
Cole swallowed.
“That Elena Vance?”
I raised one eyebrow.
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“There’s another one?”
Nobody laughed.
Cole’s face lost another shade of color.
The thing about classified reputations is that they grow in strange directions.
Most people inside conventional units had never met me.
Some believed I was a man.
Others believed Elena Vance was simply a name attached to multiple operatives.
A few insisted I had retired years earlier after an operation in Eastern Europe ended with three intelligence officers d/e/@/d and an entire network exposed.
None of those versions were completely accurate.
Which was precisely why I preferred them.
Mercer stepped toward me.
“You okay?”
“I’ve been treated worse by airport furniture.”
Cole flinched.
