Page 14 of Marked to Be Mine (Erased #1)

Maeve

I ran with my lungs burning, rain plastering my hair to my face. The USB drive pressed against my ribs through the inner pocket of my jacket, its weight insignificant yet monumental. My fingers kept returning to the zipper, checking it remained closed.

“Don’t look back. Keep moving,” Reaper ordered, his voice barely audible above the rain that had intensified from drizzle to downpour.

We emerged from a narrow alleyway into what must have been a bustling marketplace hours earlier.

Now, metal shutters covered most stalls, their owners having sensed the approaching storm—or perhaps something more dangerous.

The few remaining vendors hurriedly packed their goods, casting nervous glances at the sky and the armed man at my side.

Rain caught in my eyelashes, blurring my vision.

I blinked it away, scanning for threats through the hazy glow of streetlamps that reflected off every wet surface.

Years of investigative fieldwork had taught me to identify surveillance patterns, but nothing in my experience had prepared me for this level of pursuit.

Reaper’s hand suddenly clamped around my wrist. He yanked me behind an abandoned fruit cart, his body fluid in movement yet hard as steel when he pressed me against the wall. His other hand covered my mouth, calluses rough against my lips.

“Three vehicles. Coordinated search pattern,” he whispered, breath warm against my ear. “We need to split their attention.”

I nodded against his palm, and he released me. Through gaps in the wooden slats of the cart, I spotted it—a black SUV with tinted windows crawling down the street. Its headlights cut through the rain, creating ghostly patterns on the wet pavement.

“There’s another at the north intersection,” Reaper said, his eyes scanning methodically. “And a third circling the east perimeter.”

“They’re boxing us in,” I whispered, mind racing through possible escape routes. “How do they know exactly where to look?”

“They don’t. But they’re good at what they do.”

“The drainage canal,” I suggested, pointing toward a narrow gap between buildings. “Most surveillance focuses on street level, not infrastructure.”

Instead of answering, he tilted his head, listening. I followed his gaze to spot headlights cutting through rain at the intersection ahead—moving slowly, deliberately. Another set appeared from a side street to our right.

Reaper guided me deeper into the labyrinth of market stalls and narrow passages. He positioned himself between me and the street, his body becoming a shield without sacrificing mobility.

The crash of breaking glass shattered the rhythm of the rainfall. Something pinged off metal near my head.

“Stay behind me,” Reaper ordered, his arm extending backward to ensure I remained in position. He drew his weapon in one fluid motion, returning fire toward the SUV that had appeared at the end of the alley.

“They found us faster than they should have,” I gasped.

“Someone’s feeding them coordinates.” Reaper’s eyes never stopped scanning, his body coiled like a predator ready to strike. When he moved again, his movements became sharper, more lethal—something cold and inhuman awakening in his posture.

Reaper abruptly halted, pulling me against him as headlights swept across the passage ahead. Another SUV appeared, blocking our escape route. The tinted windows rolled down, revealing tactical arms extending from within.

“Down!” Reaper’s body curved around mine as he kicked over wooden crates, creating a barricade.

Bullets splintered the wood near my head.

I let out an uncontrollable screech, though I quickly forced my hand to fly to my mouth to silence any further sounds.

It was a deadly mistake—giving away our location—but one I couldn’t control.

At least, not at first. My entire body trembled, but I forced myself to keep still, not daring to move an inch while Reaper did what he did best.

He returned fire with controlled bursts while calculating our next move. I watched his eyes—the same predatory assessment I’d seen when he first came to kill me in my motel room.

“They’re shooting,” he said, dropping an empty magazine and loading another. “Not standard elimination protocol.”

“Maybe they want us alive,” I countered. “Just like they wanted Xavier and you alive for their experiments.” A lump formed in my throat. “Do you think they’re trying to lure us out in the open?”

Reaper didn’t have the time to respond. Something flickered across his face—recognition or memory, I couldn’t tell. His programming seemed to struggle against an emerging thought.

The SUV’s engine revved, tires skidding on wet pavement as it maneuvered to cut off another potential escape route. Behind us, footsteps splashed through puddles—more operatives closing in.

Reaper grabbed my elbow, pulling me toward what appeared to be a dead end, and the tactical team advanced, their weapons trained on us with lethal focus.

I sprinted alongside Reaper through a narrow passage between two warehouses, my shoes sloshing through deepening puddles.

The rain had transformed from annoying to dangerous, sheets of water limiting visibility to mere feet ahead.

Water cascaded from gutters overhead, creating miniature rapids that threatened my footing with each step.

“How many?” I gasped as we pressed against a wall at an intersection.

Reaper’s eyes narrowed, calculating. “Six on foot. Two teams.” He didn’t sound winded at all. “They’re herding us. But the storm is giving us an edge.”

Steam billowed from vents along the corridor, creating ghostly white obstacles that drifted and swirled with each gust of wind. The industrial maze grew more disorienting by the second.

We rounded a corner into a wider passage. Something in Reaper’s posture changed—a subtle tension I’d already learned to recognize as danger. His head snapped toward me, eyes widening a fraction.

In one fluid motion, he lunged at me. His body slammed into mine, spinning us both as he pulled me down. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs and I yelped in pain.

Then, a sharp crack echoed through the corridor.

Reaper’s shoulder jerked back with impact, his face tightening briefly before returning to neutral. He rolled off me into a crouch, returning fire with three shots.

“Move. Now.” His voice remained unchanged, with no indication of pain or concern.

I scrambled to my feet as he directed us toward a narrow gap between buildings—too small for the SUVs to follow. More shots rang out behind us, bullets pinging off metal walls .

“You’re hit,” I said between gasps.

“Irrelevant.”

We emerged into another corridor and spotted a half-open loading dock door. Reaper checked before ushering me inside.

The abandoned space smelled of rust and standing water. Shadows concealed the room’s dimensions, only faint light filtering through broken skylights above. Concrete crumbled along the walls, and metal supports were exposed like skeletal ribs.

Reaper positioned himself to monitor both our entrance and a rear exit, weapon ready.

“Let me see,” I insisted, approaching him. He may have thought he was invincible and untouchable because that was what he had been taught, but, at the end of the day, he was just a man.

He didn’t respond, attention fixed on the doorway. I took that as a sign to approach him and inspect his wound. His right shoulder showed a small tear in the fabric, but no spreading bloodstain. When I approached him, though, I found myself hesitating once more.

“Reaper. Let me see.”

After a moment of silence, he permitted my approach with a slight nod. I pushed the torn fabric aside, expecting a bullet wound but finding something entirely different—a small glass cylinder embedded in muscle, a droplet of clear liquid visible at its tip.

“That’s not a bullet,” I said, my voice rising with panic. “It looks like… an injector. ”

Reaper’s gaze dropped to his shoulder, and then he extracted the device, examining it under what little light filtered through the skylights.

“What is that?” My hands shook as I reached toward it. “Why did you take that for me?”

His eyes met mine, conveying something more complex than his words. “Trajectory analysis indicated you were the target.”

“Are you feeling alright? What if it’s poison?” I pressed my palm against his forehead, searching for fever.

He shook his head. “If it were designed to kill, I’d already be dead. If it’s designed for something else…”

The unfinished thought hung between us, more threatening than any explanation.

“Is it a tracker? Or something to disable your programming?” The journalist in me couldn’t stop asking questions even as fear clenched my stomach. I couldn’t lose him after we’d made so much progress together. We needed each other, more than either wanted to admit.

“Later.” He tucked the empty injector into his pocket. “They are still after us.”

A distinct mechanical whirring cut through the rainfall.

“Drones,” he said, tensing as he scanned the skylight.

Through broken glass panels, I spotted them—sleek black hexacopters with glowing red thermal imaging lenses that resembled predator eyes, methodically sweeping the area.

“What the hell?” I whispered, throat tight.

“Military-grade surveillance. They’ll see right through these walls with thermal imaging.” Reaper’s movements became more urgent as he assessed our limited options. “They’ll scan from above and enter every room.”

My legs trembled as I followed him toward the back of the warehouse. “Why drones now? They already had people on the ground.”

“They must have lost our tracks, and drones are faster.” His voice remained emotionless despite the revelation. “They are losing patience. They want to capture us sooner rather than later.”

We slipped through a corridor of stacked crates. The whirring grew louder overhead, red light sweeping across broken windows.