Page 75 of Hunt Me

“No—”

“Listen to me.” Sparks shower through a growing gap at the door’s edge. Of course, the feds would have cutting-edge technology. This door should be able to resist most attempts to break through, but they’re cutting through it like butter. “Morrison knows. About Nightshade, about my parents, about everything. This is a cleanup.”

“I’m coming?—”

“You can’t.” The torch cuts deeper. “Not in time. There are too many.”

Silence stretches between us, broken only by the screech of tearing metal.

“Iris.” His voice drops. “Don’t let them separate you and Maya. Whatever happens, stay together. I will find you.”

The torch breaks through. Light floods our sanctuary.

“Time’s up,” Maya whispers.

The door crashes inward, taking half the wall with it.

I drop to my knees immediately, hands raised. Maya mirrors me, moving with practiced precision we drilled for this exact scenario.

“Don’t move!”

Six red dots dance across my chest. The lead operative—buzz cut, dead eyes—advances while his team spreads into formation.

“Hands behind your head. Fingers laced.”

I comply. The plastic digs into my wrists as the zip ties cinch tight. They yank Maya up first, her shoulder slamming into the doorframe.

“Easy!” I start to stand, but rough hands shove me back down.

“Shut up.”

They haul Maya through the ruined doorway. Her eyes meet mine—terrified but sharp. Calculating. Still fighting.

My turn. Strong grips under my arms, lifting. I stumble forward; my legs are unsteady. The apartment’s been torn apart. Furniture overturned, electronics smashed, my servers ripped from their mounts with wires dangling like severed arteries.

The burner phone is still clutched in my bound hands. I squeeze it once. Twice. Emergency beacon signal activating through triple-encrypted channels.

“Drop it.”

A boot connects with my ribs. Air explodes from my lungs, and the phone clatters away, skittering under the couch.

“Alexi—” I gasp his name before I can stop myself.

The lead operative’s expression shifts. Recognition. Something worse than rage—satisfaction.

“So, it’s true.” He grabs my jaw, forcing eye contact. “The Phantom’s fucking an Ivanov.”

Maya struggles against her captors. “Leave her alone!”

Movement from behind. Cloth appears over my shoulder—white, medical. The sharp chemical smell hits first.

Chloroform.

“No—” I twist, fighting, but hands lock around my skull. The fabric presses hard against the nose and mouth, cutting off air. Cutting off everything.

My vision doubles. Triples. The apartment tilts sideways.

“Iris!” Alexi’s voice explodes from the discarded phone, tinny and distant. “IRIS!”