I can’t sleep. My mind still runs threat assessments. My skin still burns where she touched me.
Carefully untangling myself from her, I carry her to the bedroom. She’s light in my arms. I tuck her in, standing there a moment to watch her steady breathing. She looks peaceful.
I hate that she looks peaceful. She should be terrified. She should be running.
I walk back out to the living room and scan the darkness.
I pick up my weapon from the bench, wiping the condensation from the slide.
Then it catches my eye.
The sat-phone.
It sits on the kitchen counter where I left it. The distinct blue light blinks.
A message.
I didn’t hear it come in. I was too busy breaking my own rules.
I unlock the screen and stare at the text.
Sender:Unknown—I know you have her. You have 24 hours to bring me the documents, or I send the cleanup crew.
The phone nearly cracks in my grip.
They found us.
How?
Hutchinson is the only one with the frequency. Unless… My thumb traces the casing of the phone. Triangulation. If they have tech better than ours. If Mercer has agency resources we don’t know about. They just needed us to stay in one place long enough for the net to close.
I look toward the bedroom where Iris sleeps.
I promised to keep her safe. I failed. By touching her, by stopping, by staying, I let them catch up.
I engage the slide on my Glock. The metallic click echoes in the empty room.
We’re not waiting for them to come.
I give her three more hours while I strip the house to what we can carry. Then, in the dead cold before the sun, I go to wake her.
11
The Eye of the Storm
IRIS
The transitionfrom sleep to wakefulness isn’t gentle. It’s a collision.
One second, I drift in the warm, nebulous dark of a dreamless sleep, anchored to safety by the heavy weight of an arm across my waist. The next, that same weight shifts, becoming a clamp of steel and leather.
A thick glove presses over my mouth, sealing off my breath.
My eyelids snap open.
Adrenaline dumps into my system, a cold, sharp spike electrifying every nerve ending. The flight response kicks in before my brain can process the threat. I thrash, instinct taking over, my hands flying up to claw at the obstruction, seeking purchase, seeking air.
“Quiet.”
