The streetlamp outside caught the sharp angle of his jaw through the open blinds.

He looked exactly like the poster-boy colonel the Pentagon loved to put on camera, even in the shadows.

“Get out of my apartment, Cole,” I said.

My voice was steadier than my hand, but my fingers were slick with sweat against the knife handle.

I kept the blade low, hidden by the counter.

“We don’t have time for this,” he said, taking another step.

The leather of his jacket rustled, a dry, expensive sound in the small room.

“The people I work with aren’t as patient as I am, Eleanor.”

“You mean Vanessa?” I asked.

“I mean the people who put Vanessa in her office,” he said.

He stopped three feet away from me.

I could smell his cologne, the same sharp cedar scent he always wore when he wanted to feel in control.

“Give me the secondary key,” Cole said, reaching out his hand, palm up. “I can still protect you from them.”

“Protect me?” I let out a dry, bitter laugh.