Code Name Typhon

Typhon

Iconsidered turning around and leaving when I entered the room and saw its sole occupant was the one man I abhorred more than any other—Niven St. Thomas.

His carelessness had led to the deaths of several of the best operatives I ever worked with back when I was still with MI6, including that of my mentor, Edgar Walsh.

St. Thomas’ errors in judgment were so egregious and his attitude so flippant that I was convinced he had to be a double agent. And while I’d done everything in my power to prove him as such, I was never able to.

Years later, when I learned the man, whose code name was Saint, had been removed from SIS duty, I celebrated, knowing I’d never have to see the sonuvabitch again.

Then I met Eliza Fox—the most beautiful, intelligent, witty, charming, and hot-as-fuck woman I’d ever known. I was so taken with her, I’d asked her to marry me fifteen minutes after she agreed to let me buy her drink.

Naturally, she assumed I was joking. I wasn’t.

When she’d said she was meeting her cousin, who was perpetually late, I silently thanked him since it meant until he showed up, I’d have Eliza’s undivided attention.

“Here he is now,” she said after we’d been chatting for almost an hour.

I turned to look where she’d motioned, and was horrified to see Saint walking toward us. His eyes were focused on her, but when he glanced in my direction, I saw the same dismay I felt reflected back at me.

It seemed logical that I’d excuse myself and forget all about the captivating woman I’d just met, given the two seemed close. However, all rational thought eluded me. She was the flame, I was the moth, and Saint was a vexation worth ignoring. I remembered thinking the two couldn’t be that close. I’d likely not run into him again.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. They were as close as siblings and spent time together as often as they could. Which meant, on nights like this one, I had to endure his presence when Eliza invited him, his wife, and me to dinner.

Being alone with him, though, was something I avoided at any cost.

He glanced up from something he was reading. No doubt Eliza’s private correspondence. “I didn’t expect you.”

Rather than engage, I turned to leave.

“I was just thinking about that old chap—what was his name? Edward? No, that isn’t right. Edmund, err, Walsh?”

“Edgar, and what of him?”

“Doddering old fool. God, he was useless. I’m surprised we weren’t all killed that day. I suppose it was fitting he was he only one who did.”

I stalked toward him. “He wasn’t the only agent we lost that day, and those we did, were due to your negligence, not his. It should’ve been you who died, and it should’ve been by my hand. Consider yourself warned that I continue to seek out any opportunity to put the bullet in your brain you so rightly deserve.”

He glanced behind me and smiled when we heard a woman gasp.

I spun around and looked at Eliza’s horrified expression and tear-filled eyes.

“Get out, Typhon,” she spat. “You’re no longer welcome here.”

I stepped closer, and she retreated. Behind me, Saint laughed.