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COLE

Tonight, a woman’s voice cuts through the static and changes everything.

Her voice sounds steady despite the circumstances. Unwavering. Controlled. But I catch the undercurrent of fear beneath the composure.

Morrone. The name clicks immediately. Lead prosecutor on the Borsellini RICO case, the one Killian warned our network about three weeks ago. His intelligence suggested the family had corrupted federal agents, potentially compromising witness protection protocols.

I check the dispatcher’s response, noting the slight delay before deployment confirmation. Wrong response time. Wrong tone. Wrong protocol sequence.

Someone’s listening who shouldn’t be.

My decision has been made before I consciously think it through. The standard extraction protocol would get her killed. The Borsellini family doesn’t leave witnesses, especially not federal prosecutors with evidence that could dismantle their entire operation.

I lock onto her phone’s GPS signal and plot the fastest route. She’s three blocks from the government building, in a commercial district with minimal security cameras. Smart woman. But not smart enough to evade Borsellini’s hunters for long.

“Asset compromised,” I text to Killian’s secure server. “Implementing Blackout Protocol.”

His response is immediate: “Confirmed. Safe house Delta available.”

I’m already moving, muscle memory taking over as I check my weapon, secure my tactical vest under my jacket, and start my vehicle. If Molly Morrone dies tonight, all that disappears.

And so does our best chance of connecting the family to the larger syndicate Killian’s been tracking.

I spot her six minutes later, huddled in the shadow of a closed storefront. Even from this distance, I can assess her condition, exhausted, frightened, but alert. Her head turns instinctively, scanning for threats. Her hand clutches what appears to be a briefcase against her chest.

Case files. Evidence. Clever.

Two men in dark clothing emerge from an alley half a block behind her. They haven’t spotted her yet, but they’re moving with purpose, checking doorways and shadows. Professional hunters.

I pull alongside the curb, engine idling. When she turns toward the sound, I reach across and push open the passenger door. Even in the dim light, I can see her brown eyes widen as she takes in my size.

“Federal Prosecutor Morrone.” I keep my voice low, deadly calm. “Your FBI response team is compromised. Get in now.”

Her eyes widen. Recognition. Not of me personally, but the threat I represent. Unknown man versus known killers. She hesitates, weighing impossible options.

“The FBI dispatch was compromised,” I continue. “The response team being sent isn’t coming to rescue you.”

That does it. She slides into the passenger seat, clutching her briefcase. I accelerate before she’s fully seated, forcing her to grab the door and pull it closed.

“Who are you?” she demands, voice surprisingly steady.

“Cole Bennett, former FBI Witness Security until their politics got good people killed. Currently, private security contractor.” This is the simplest version of the truth. “I met Killian after the FBI hung me out to dry on a case. He offered something they never could, results without red tape.”

I learned that lesson the hard way when my FBI partner was killed because someone higher up leaked our location to save their own career. That’s when Killian found me - drinking myself to death in a dive bar, ready to put my gun in my mouth. He offered me purpose instead of a pension.

“Borsellini assets intercepted your emergency call from inside the Bureau.”

“FBI politics... and intercepted calls? That’s not possible,” she says, but there’s no conviction behind the words.

“The men following you aren’t local muscle. They’re imported specialists. The Borsellini’s don’t use that level of professionalism unless they’re eliminating a critical threat.”

I take a hard right, checking the mirror. The two men have returned to their vehicle and are pursuing, but the distance gives us a temporary advantage.

“How do I know you’re not working for them?” She shifts the briefcase to her lap, one hand gripping the door handle.

Smart woman. Suspicious. Good.

“If I were, you’d already be dead,” I say flatly, then my voice softens slightly. “I’m working with a private security network that’s been tracking the Borsellini operation for months. Your case files are valuable to our investigation.”

Her breathing changes. Faster. Shallower. Processing the implications. “The FBI is compromised?”

“Parts of it. Enough to make standard protection protocols useless for you.”

Headlights appear in my rearview mirror, closing fast. I take another turn, pushing the vehicle harder.

“They’ve found us,” I state, accelerating through a yellow light. “Hang on.”

I slam the wheel hard left, tires screaming against asphalt as we rocket through the intersection. The pursuing headlights swing wide but stay locked on us. Expert driver. Worse, they’re not shooting, which means they want her breathing when they deliver her to Alessio.

My foot crushes the accelerator as we tear through downtown, the engine roaring.

Behind us, their headlights slice through the darkness like hunting wolves.

They’re closing the gap. In my peripheral vision, I catch Molly clutching the door handle, knuckles white, but her breathing stays controlled. Smart woman. Fear will keep her alive.

“I have to get you off-grid immediately,” I state, taking a sharp turn into a narrow service alley. “Your identity is jeopardized. Every federal safe house within two hundred miles will be compromised within the hour.”

“That’s not possible,” she repeats, but with less certainty.

I kill the headlights and cut the engine, letting momentum carry us deeper into the shadows between buildings. The pursuing vehicle races past the alley entrance, but they’ll double back once they realize they’ve lost us.

“Listen carefully,” I turn to face her fully. “I have contacts who can create a new identity for you, get you somewhere that the Borsellini’s can’t reach. But we must move now, and I need your complete cooperation.”

I hear footsteps at the alley entrance. Someone’s searching methodically, flashlight beam sweeping the blackness.

“Don’t move,” I whisper, leaning across her to open her door. “Follow me. Stay low.”

We slip out of the vehicle, moving silently along the brick wall. I position myself between her and the approaching threat, weapon ready but concealed. The narrow passage forces us close together, her breath warm against my neck as we press into the shadows.

The flashlight beam sweeps closer. I push her against the wall, shielding her body with mine, one hand pressed firmly over her mouth.

The sudden contact sends an unexpected charge through my system.

Her frame is soft and warm beneath mine, her pulse racing against my palm.

Her scent hits me. Something floral mixed with fear and adrenaline, awakening a hunger that has no place in this operation.

Our pursuers pause at the vehicle, muttering to each other. I can make out fragments of conversation, enough to confirm they’re Borsellini’s men. Specialist cleanup crew.

I feel her trembling beneath my hand, but her eyes remain steady, focused. The adrenaline is affecting her differently than most civilians. Instead of paralyzing fear, I see determination. Resolve.

And something else. A flush rising along her neck, pupils dilated beyond what fear alone would cause.

Interesting.

The men move away, continuing down the alley. I slowly remove my hand from her mouth, but maintain our position against the wall.

“You need to do exactly what I say,” I murmur almost silently, close enough that my lips brush her ear. “Can you handle that?”

Her breath catches, but she nods. “Yes.”

“Good.” I step back, already planning our next move. “We’re switching vehicles two blocks east. Stay close.”

We move through the shadows of the city, avoiding the main streets and security cameras.

She obeys without question, moving when I move, silent when I demand it.

The natural submission sends satisfaction coursing through my veins.

Prosecutors receive basic security protocols, but she’s executing them like someone with field experience.

I secure our secondary vehicle and usher her inside. “We need to get out of the city. I have a secure location, but it’s remote.”

“How remote?” She asks, buckling her seatbelt with steady hands.

“Isolated enough that the Borsellini family won’t find you,” I answer, starting the engine. “No neighbors, no digital footprint. Just the kind of place they won’t think to look.”

My phone buzzes. A secure message from Killian’s network. They targeted the safe house. Two agents down. They were waiting.

“We just got confirmation,” I tell her, pulling onto the highway. “The FBI safe house was hit twenty minutes ago. Two agents are down, the same way they murdered Federal Judge Morrison last year. If you’d gone there, you’d be either dead or en route to meet Alessio Borsellini right now.”

She pales, reality finally sinking in. “How did you know?”

“We’ve been monitoring Borsellini’s operation for months.

Former military, intelligence, and federal agents who got tired of watching corruption win.

We operate outside official channels because the official ones failed us first.” I pause, old anger surfacing.

“I spent three years watching witnesses die because bureaucrats cared more about protocol than protection. Killian showed me there was another way.”

“We?” she questions.

“Private security network.” Enough truth to satisfy without revealing the full operation. “Killian runs the operation. Jackson is intelligence. Gabriel is tactical. Kai is medical and demolitions. We’ve saved over two hundred people when official protection failed.”

“And I’m just supposed to trust you?” The question poses no real challenge. She knows she has no choice.

“You’re supposed to survive,” I correct her. “Trust comes later.”

I navigate another turn, maintaining surveillance for any signs of pursuit. My earpiece crackles, Gabriel reporting from base.

“Clean highway, but they’re hitting three more addresses tonight.”

The network has safe houses in six states.

Killian’s network isn’t something I can fully explain to her yet, not the reach of it, nor how a man who escaped a powerful criminal organization built an underground system more effective than most government agencies.

Not the way we operate outside legal boundaries when necessary, or how many lives we’ve saved when official channels failed.

“The man who runs this network,” I say carefully, measuring how much to reveal, “has been tracking connections between crime families like the Borsellinis and larger syndicates for years. Your case is the key that unlocks everything. The Borsellinis aren’t independent operators; they’re foot soldiers for something much bigger. ”

Her prosecutor’s mind catches the implication immediately. “Bigger than a RICO case against one of the largest crime families on the East Coast?”

“Much bigger.” I leave it at that. She doesn’t need to know about The Order yet, or how Killian’s personal vendetta against them has saved dozens of lives like hers.

The city lights fade behind us as we head into the darkness of the interstate. I maintain surveillance, checking mirrors, scanning for pursuit. Nothing yet, but they’ll be regrouping, organizing a wider search.

“How long until we reach this... secure location?” She asks after twenty minutes of silence.

“Three hours. It’s an isolated cabin off the grid. Security perimeter, emergency escape tunnels, supplies for an extended stay. Everything we need.”

“Extended?”

I glance at her, taking in her work attire, her composed demeanor despite everything.

The streetlights cast shadows across her face, highlighting the curve of her lips, the determination in her eyes.

I want her. The realization hits with brutal clarity.

She’s mine, and my body already knows what my mind is fighting to deny.

“From this moment, Molly Morrone ceases to exist.” I let my gaze travel over her, taking inventory. “For however long necessary, you belong to me. You’re mine to protect.”

I watch her body respond to my possessive claim before her mind catches up. Dilated pupils, parted lips, quickened breathing. She tries to hide it, but I notice the way she presses her thighs together.

“The Borsellini trial is three weeks away. Until then, you’re their primary target.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You won’t,” I say with absolute certainty. “Because you’re smart enough to recognize your situation. The Borsellini’s have killed three other witnesses in the past month. They have resources within federal agencies. Your options are simple: disappear with me, or die within twenty-four hours.”

She stares out at the night beyond the windshield, processing. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nods.

“What happens now?” she asks eventually.

I check the mirrors again, confirming we’re not being followed yet. “We disappear. Completely.”

She’s quiet for a moment, processing. “For how long?”

“Until the threat’s eliminated.” I don’t sugarcoat it. “The Borsellini’s don’t give up easily.”

She nods once, fingers tightening around her briefcase. Professional to the core, even now. “Then I guess we have work to do.”

Miles of empty highway swallow our headlights as we disappear into the darkness. Beside me, Molly sits in silence, but I feel the tension radiating from her body. She knows her old life just died in that alley. She doesn’t know yet what I plan to build in its place.

With each mile, she becomes more completely mine.