Page 13 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

“Better position?” The modulated voice dropped lower. “Ms. Durham, I’m compromised. Flagged. Hunted. I couldn’t meet you in that parking lot because there’s a kill order on me that makes your brother’s situation look like a vacation.”

My stomach hollowed. “What?”

“The moment they realized I was recalling fragments, I became a liability. I’m alive only because I’m good at staying ahead of them—for now.”

“My brother?” I repeated, my chest tight. “What do you know about my brother? Is he...”

Reaper’s hand tensed in mine, silencing the flood of words that threatened to spill. “How long?” he asked.

“Three months, two weeks, four days.” The precision needed no explanation. The informant had been counting every hour of borrowed time. “And I know less about your brother than I’d like to, I’m afraid.”

Fuck. Okay, still, we’re moving forward, I told myself, fighting the pang of disappointment that drifted through me.

“But your access...” I began.

“Is limited and dangerous to use. Each time I tap into their systems, I risk exposure.” The silhouette leaned forward. “I still have some resources and backdoors they haven’t discovered yet. But not nearly what I had before. ”

I felt Reaper’s eyes on me, calculating, assessing my reaction with new intensity.

“And your mind?” I asked, remembering how Reaper had collapsed when I used the trigger words. “If they catch you...”

“If I’m captured and not killed outright, I’ll be reset. Wiped clean.” The informant’s voice hardened to steel. “And in the process, they’ll extract everything I know. Everyone I’ve contacted.”

The implication hung in the air like a guillotine blade. That included me. And Reaper.

“That’s why you need me,” I said, the pieces locking into place. “A journalist. Someone who can move in the open. Someone they aren’t already watching.” Though given Reaper’s mission, I wasn’t sure if that was the truth anymore. How long would it take for them to send someone else after me?

“Someone who can put the pieces together,” the informant confirmed. “I have fragments. You have research skills.”

I nodded, still holding Reaper’s hand. This stranger who was sent to kill me had become my only ally in a game where I didn’t know all the rules.

The informant shifted position, leaning closer to whatever camera fed the animation. “But there’s something you both should know.” The distortion couldn’t disguise the urgent warning. “You’re being watched. As of today.”

Reaper’s grip tightened instantly. “Specifics.”

The informant’s silhouette leaned forward. “There’s been significant chatter through secure channels about your whereabouts. Your handler is searching for you,” he said addressing Reaper.

My breath caught in my throat. “Because of me?”

“Because he didn’t report in,” the informant said.

“Two missed check-ins. Two unanswered requests for mission status. That’s unprecedented for an asset like Reaper.

” I glanced at Reaper, whose jaw had hardened to granite.

His eyes remained fixed on the screen, but calculations ran visibly behind them.

“Your handler is particularly… invested in this situation now.”

“Meaning?” Reaper asked.

“Meaning that while he was initially focused on eliminating Ms. Durham as a security risk, his priority has shifted. He’s now equally concerned with recovering you.”

A chill spread through my chest. “Because of what I know about the conditioning? About the Marionette Project?”

“Partly,” the informant answered. “But more because of what’s happening to Reaper. Assets who begin to malfunction are immediately recalled. An asset that actively refuses orders represents a catastrophic failure of conditioning protocols.”

The room contracted around us, the air thinning. I was acutely aware of every point where Reaper’s body stood close to mine.

“And me?” I asked. “What about me?”

The informant’s silhouette went perfectly still. “Brock’s interest in you has increased exponentially, too. Your profile has been elevated. You’re no longer just a journalist with inconvenient information. You’re now the catalyst for an asset malfunction.”

“Which makes me more valuable dead,” I said, feeling blood drain from my face.

“Or alive,” Reaper interjected, his voice different now—harder, yet somehow more human than before. “If they think I’m responding to her, they might want to study that reaction.”

The informant nodded. “Yes. Which means they might attempt to capture rather than eliminate. For both of you.”

I thought of the poker chip in Reaper’s pocket—the one clue to his past identity. What other fragments might he recover if given time? And what might I learn about Xavier?

“How long do we have?” I asked.

“They’ve already deployed a secondary team to S?o Paulo.

Your previous accommodations have been thoroughly searched.

” The informant’s distorted figure shifted urgently, showing that the time for chit chat was now over.

“You don’t have much time. There’s a USB drive hidden under the keypad by the door.

Just tear the panel apart—it’s designed to break away.

Everything I could gather on short notice is there, including your brother’s intake files. It’s not much, but…” He trailed off.

I exchanged a quick look with Reaper, whose eyes widened fractionally at this revelation.

“As soon as you leave, I’ll destroy the equipment in this room. ”

I glanced at Reaper, whose expression hadn’t changed, but I could sense the subtle shift in his posture—coiled tighter, ready to move.

The informant continued, voice dropping lower. “I’ll keep digging, try to stay ahead of their tracking algorithms. Keep the burner phone. I’ve hardened it against basic surveillance, but don’t use it unless absolutely necessary. And never from the same location twice.”

I stared at the silhouette, torn between gratitude and suspicion. “Why help us? What do you want in return?”

The informant’s posture straightened with quiet determination. “The same thing you want, Ms. Durham. To burn it all down. To expose the Marionette Project. To find out who we were before they took our lives away. And to prevent them from taking anyone else.”

A beat passed as I absorbed his words. Beside me, Reaper’s expression shifted subtly—something almost like recognition flashing in his eyes.

The silhouette suddenly stiffened. “Wait. Something’s wrong.”

I felt Reaper’s muscles tense beside me before I even registered the change in the informant’s tone.

“What is it?” I asked, heartbeat accelerating.

“Your location—Mooca district—it just pinged on their secure channel.” The informant’s voice dropped to an urgent hiss. “They’ve triangulated a signal from this building. How the hell did they...”

Reaper stepped forward. “Time frame? ”

“Minutes.” Keys clattered furiously through the speakers. “Three vehicles dispatched from different locations, converging. Heavy tactical team.”

My throat constricted, and I looked up at Reaper, my face filled with panic. He turned to me, his expression calculating but oddly calm. “Exit routes?”

“Northeast alley connects to the service road behind the textile district.” The informant’s words came faster now. “Move fast, stay off main streets. Get the USB. And don’t forget what’s on it, Ms. Durham—your brother’s intake files. Proof of everything they did to him.”

The center screen went black. The other monitors flashed once and died.

“He’s covering his tracks.” Reaper moved to the door, pushing it open. “Smart.”

We slipped back through the narrow passage.

The room seemed darker than before, shadows pooling in corners.

Reaper reached the keypad by the entrance and didn’t hesitate—he jammed his fingers into the edge of the panel and tore it completely from the wall.

Wires dangled, but a small black USB drive was taped to the back.

He pulled it free and handed it to me. “Secure this.”

I slipped it into my inner jacket pocket and zipped it closed, hand lingering over the spot. “How close are they?”

“Too close.” He pressed one ear to the exterior door.

The reality of our situation hit me in a cold wave. “What if this is a trap? What if the informant...”

“Doesn’t matter now.” Reaper’s hand found mine in the darkness, surprisingly gentle despite the urgency. “We move. ”

He pulled the door open a crack, surveyed the empty street, then tugged me through. The night air hit my face like a hot slap, rain drizzling, bringing with it diesel exhaust and rain-slick pavement.

“Stay close.” His voice was barely audible.

We slipped along the building’s edge, hugging the shadows. Every sound magnified—my breathing, the scrape of my shoes against concrete, a distant car horn. Reaper navigated with absolute certainty, guiding us through a maze of narrow passages between buildings.

When we reached a chain-link fence, he lifted me up and over before scaling it himself with disturbing ease. I landed hard on the other side, pain shooting through my ankles, but he caught my elbow before I stumbled.

“Keep moving,” he murmured.

The narrow alley opened into a wider service road. Abandoned loading docks lined one side, their metal shutters covered in graffiti. The buildings loomed dark and empty.

Headlights suddenly swept across the road ahead, illuminating raindrops I hadn’t noticed were falling.

Reaper pulled me into a recessed doorway, his body shielding mine as the vehicle passed slowly. Not police—unmarked black SUV with tinted windows.

“They’re sweeping the perimeter,” he whispered against my ear. His breath was warm on my skin, raising goosebumps despite our danger.

“What’s on the USB?” I asked, my hand instinctively covering the pocket where it was hidden .

“Hopefully, answers.” His eyes met mine in the darkness, something unreadable passing between us. “If we live long enough to look.”

Another set of headlights appeared at the far end of the road. This time, moving faster.

“Run.” Reaper took my hand again. “Run!”