Page 103

"Always so demanding." I kept my voice light, teasing, even as my heart tried to claw its way out of my chest. This might be the last time we spoke. The last time I saw him soft and sleep-warm and trusting.

"Love you too," he mumbled, already drifting back toward sleep.

I waited until his breathing evened out, counting each inhale and exhale like a rosary. Forty-three breaths. That's how long it took for him to fully surrender back to sleep. Forty-three chances to change my mind, to crawl back into bed and tell Eddie to fuck off with his plan.

Forty-three times I chose to leave anyway.

The hallway felt like a tunnel, stretching impossibly long between me and the elevator. Every step echoed too loud, bouncing off walls that seemed to lean in with judgment. The breakfast sounds from other apartments—coffee makers gurgling, news anchors droning, children arguing over cereal—felt like glimpses of a normal life I was walking away from.

Two blocks. Eddie had said two blocks down, nondescript sedan. He'd been very specific about the details, professional in that way that made you trust someone even when your gut screamed warnings.

The morning air hit like a slap, sharp with the promise of rain. I pulled my jacket tighter, hunching against more than just the cold. Every parked car looked suspicious. Every early morning jogger might be surveillance. Paranoia, maybe, but Tyson's caution had rubbed off on me.

Eddie's sedan sat exactly where he'd promised, engine running, exhaust creating small clouds in the cool air. He watched me approach through the driver's side mirror, hands visible on the steering wheel. Professional. Careful. Everything about this screamed military precision.

"Almost thought you'd changed your mind," he said as I slid into the passenger seat.

"I did. About fifty times." I stared straight ahead, memorizing the crack in the windshield, the pine tree air freshener hanging from the mirror, anything to avoid looking at him. "This better work."

"It will. Trust me."

Trust. Such a simple word for such a complicated thing. I trusted Tyson with my life, my heart, my broken pieces. Eddie? Eddie I trusted to have a plan. Whether that plan included my survival was another question entirely.

He drove carefully, narrating the plan again like a tour guide from hell. "Johnson and Martinez are already in position at the coffee shop. They'll have eyes on the whole street. Tank's got overwatch from the parking garage—best sniper we have after your boy. Medical's standing by two blocks out."

Each detail should have been reassuring. Instead, they piled up like evidence of premeditation, too perfect, too thought-out.

"What about civilians?" I asked, watching the familiar streets pass by.

"Minimal risk. Early morning, most shops aren't open yet. We've got prospects redirecting foot traffic." He glanced at me, something flickering across his face too fast to read. "I've been planning ops since before you were born, girl. I know what I'm doing."

The city gave way to industrial areas, warehouses and loading docks replacing boutiques and cafes. My stomach dropped like an elevator with cut cables.

"This isn't Main Street."

The words came out small, childish, like pointing out the obvious might somehow change reality. Eddie's hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles going white then relaxing. When he spoke, his voice had changed, all that professional warmth stripped away.

"Change of plans."

Theabandonedwarehouseloomedagainst the gray morning sky like a tombstone. Eddie pulled into aloading dock where shadows swallowed the sedan whole, cutting us off from the world of normal people going about normal lives. Three motorcycles sat waiting, chrome gleaming despite the dim light. Serpent bikes, their colors bold as a declaration of war.

"Cruz insisted on a secure location," Eddie continued, like we were discussing restaurant choices instead of my abduction.

"Eddie . . ." But I already knew. Could see it in the way his shoulders hunched, how his fingers drummed against the steering wheel in a rhythm that might have been morse code for 'sorry.' The plan had never been about catching Cruz.

I was the plan.

The package to be delivered.

"How long?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. Inside, everything was screaming, a cacophony of betrayal and fear and fury that threatened to tear me apart. "How long have you been working with them?"

"Does it matter?" He finally looked at me then, and what I saw made my stomach twist. Not evil, not even greed. Just exhaustion. Defeat. The face of a man who'd given up on honor because honor hadn't paid the bills. "Get out."

"Eddie, please—"

"GET OUT!" His palm slammed against the dashboard hard enough to make me jump. The professional mask shattered completely, revealing something raw and ugly underneath. "You think this was easy? You think I wanted this?"

He came around to my side before I could lock the door—not that it would have mattered. Where would I run in this concrete maze? His hand on my arm wasn't rough, exactly, but it brooked no argument.