Page 74 of Hunt Me

“The trace went cold in Jakarta. They’ve got nothing.”

Maya whirls on me. “They don’t need proof, Iris. They need an excuse. And you just handed them one by sticking your nose into Nightshade.”

“We’ve been careful?—”

“Careful doesn’t mean invisible.” She zips the bag. “How long until they connect the dots? Until they realize the girl whose parents they murdered is now the hacker who breached their operation?”

“They can’t prove?—”

“They don’t have to prove anything. They’re the goddamn government.” Maya grabs her passport from the drawer. “They can disappear us both and call it national security.”

The door explodes inward.

Wood splinters across the floor as six operatives in black tactical gear storm through, weapons raised. Red laser sights paint dots across our walls.

“Federal agents! Get on the ground!”

Maya grabs my arm, yanking me toward the bedroom. We sprint down the hall as boots pound behind us.

“Panic room,” she gasps.

We reach the closet. Maya’s fingers fly across the hidden panel while I slam the bedroom door shut, buying us seconds. The lock clicks.

She tears clothes aside, revealing the reinforced door we installed last year—paranoia paying off. The panel reads her thumbprint, and the metal bolt slides back with a heavy thunk.

“Move!”

I dive through. Maya follows, slamming the door as footsteps thunder into the bedroom. The bolts engage automatically. Three inches of steel between us and them.

The space is six feet square. No windows. Emergency supplies line one wall—water, protein bars, burner phones. Maya’s breathing hard, pressed against the opposite wall.

Something impacts the door. Once. Twice. Testing.

“How long?” I whisper.

“Hour. Maybe two before they breach.” She’s already reaching for a burner phone. “We need?—”

“No.” I grab her wrist. “They’ll triangulate the signal.”

“Then what?”

I pull out my own burner—one of five I keep stashed here. My fingers shake dialing the number I memorized this morning.

He answers on the first ring.

“Iris?”

“They’re here.” My voice cracks. “Armed operatives. Federal, maybe CIA. We made it to the panic room, but?—”

Metal shrieks against metal. They’re using power tools on the hinges.

“Where are you exactly?” Alexi’s voice goes cold, controlled.

“My apartment.”

“How long can you hold?”

“Hour. Two at most.” The whine of the cutting torch intensifies. “Alexi, they’re going to take us.”