Page 45

The moment we crossed the river, everything shifted.

It wasn't just the red dot that materialized on Vincent's window, though that sent ice through my veins.

Time slowed as that dot settled on his forehead.

Something in me switched off, or maybe switched on.

The Luka who made jokes and ate gummy worms vanished.

What remained was pure function: protect Vincent. Everything else became noise.

I yanked him down against me as the glass exploded inward. His body beneath mine was warm, alive, with his pulse hammering against my chest. Breathing, no blood, hands gripping my jacket. Alive. Keep him that way.

"CONTACT!" The word tore from my throat as Diego swerved hard. Tires screamed. Vincent's fingers dug into my shoulders, and some distant part of me registered the half-moons his nails would leave. Good. Mark me. Show me you're real.

"Rooftop, two o'clock!" Lo's voice, sharp and professional. Even he had dropped the theatrical flair .

"Better hold on to something," Diego warned, cutting across three lanes.

Vincent made a sound that was half laugh, half terror, his breath hot against my neck. "So much for low profile."

"Low profile died when we crossed the river." I kept him pinned beneath me, scanning for threats. The weight of him under my body registered in ways I couldn't process right now. File it away. Deal with it when he's safe.

Military-grade ammunition. The bullet had punched through reinforced glass, spiderwebbing the entire window before it shattered inward. Prometheus wasn't fucking around. He'd sent his best. My fingers closed around my Glock, muscle memory bypassing conscious thought.

Another shot punched through the roof, the bullet whizzing past Vincent's shoulder close enough to ripple his suit fabric. Too close. Too fucking close. My vision tunneled to a single point: keep him breathing.

"We've got company," Lo announced, somehow sounding delighted about it. "Ooh, and it's Volkova leading the pack. Didn't she break your ribs that time in Moscow?"

I glanced back at the approaching trio of motorcycles with a scowl. “Yeah, and she laughed about it after. Vincent, get down!”

I pressed him against the floorboards, his expensive suit be damned. He folded without argument, trusting me completely. That trust hit somewhere deep, somewhere I'd examine later when bullets weren't flying.

Diego swerved sharply, throwing me against the door. "Sorry about the dry cleaning bill, Doctor," he called back, his Andalusian accent thickening under stress. "But I promise you, death would ruin that beautiful suit much worse." He punched the accelerator, weaving through traffic.

The earpiece crackled, and a digitized voice came through: "Your primary route is compromised. Prometheus has agents at all major intersections."

"Thanks, Jasper," Diego replied.

That tactical precision in his instructions was impressive. Even under fire, Jasper's intel was flawless. If he really was Hephaestus as he'd claimed at our meeting, it explained how he could anticipate Prometheus's moves so accurately.

The digitized voice continued, urgency breaking through the modulation: "Three teams converging.

Elite operatives. Prometheus has deployed significant resources.

" A pause, then what sounded almost like dark amusement.

"He must be particularly desperate to recover you, Luka.

I'm almost flattered by the resource allocation. "

"Glad someone's enjoying this," I muttered, checking Vincent for injuries as another bullet pinged off the reinforced chassis.

"Enjoying? No." Jasper's distorted voice cooled. "Appreciating the tactical significance? Absolutely. He's never committed this level of manpower to a retrieval operation before."

Of course he had. This was personal now. I'd rejected him, chosen Vincent, shown the world his prize weapon had free will. He'd burn the city to get us back.

"Plan B," I ordered. "The hearse."

"Always plan for disaster, darling," Lo said, but his usual lightness felt forced.

Diego took us through the financial district, past buildings I'd once surveilled from. Different life. Different Luka. That man would have completed the contract, collected his penny, moved on. That man was dead the moment Vincent opened his door in pajama pants .

"Coming up on the switch point," Diego announced, tapping his steering wheel in a specific rhythm. "Classic smuggler's shuffle. They'll be watching for our damaged SUV, not what comes next."

"They're making a move," Lo warned.

Volkova accelerated, her Ducati eating up the distance.

"DOWN!" I shoved Vincent flat again.

His breath hitched against my collarbone while his pupils dilated from fear or arousal or both. Impossible to separate now. All that mattered was the solid warmth of him beneath me, still breathing, still whole.

"Sorry darling, those boots don't go with that bike anyway!" Lo called out as Volkova swerved but couldn't recover. Metal met metal in a symphony of destruction. One down. "Cross her off the Christmas card list," Lo quipped, already scanning for the next threat.

"Incoming!" Diego’s shout snapped my attention right. Black Range Rover, aiming to T-bone us. Diego floored it, the engine screaming. We cleared the intersection with inches to spare.

Through it all, Vincent stayed exactly where I'd put him. No panic, no fighting my hold. Complete trust. Something fierce and possessive rose in my chest. Mine to protect. Mine to keep alive. Mine.

The earpiece buzzed again: "East stairwell clear. Ninety seconds for vehicle transfer once inside."

"They're herding us," I realized aloud. Classic Prometheus—make your enemy think they're escaping while guiding them into a kill box where he could collect his penny personally.

Diego solved that by taking us through an alley barely wide enough for our SUV. "Not today, motherfuckers."

The parking garage loomed ahead, a nondescript concrete structure. My hand found Vincent's shoulder, squeezing once. You're okay. We're okay. His fingers covered mine briefly before I had to focus on the approaching garage.

"When we stop," I told him, "you move exactly as we practiced."

His tongue darted across his lips. I wanted to catch it with my teeth, taste his fear and transform it into something else. Later. If we survived. When we survived.

"Stay low, move fast, follow your lead," he confirmed.

Good. Perfect. I drank in the sight of him—disheveled but determined, afraid but trusting. If this went sideways, I wanted this image burned into my brain: Vincent choosing to trust me even unto death.

Diego counted down. My hand found Vincent's arm as we prepared to move. The contact sent electricity through my palm, grounding me in the moment.

"GO!"

All four doors opened simultaneously in a choreographed explosion of movement.

I hauled Vincent from the SUV, keeping his body shielded with mine.

Lo exited backward, weapon trained on the entrance ramp, covering our six.

Diego killed the engine and pocketed the keys smoothly, already striding toward the hearse.

Fifteen feet. Ten. Five.

Our footsteps echoed in perfect synchronization, not planned but the natural result of professionals who knew how to move together. Lo maintained his backward shuffle while I guided Vincent with a hand on his lower back. Diego was already working the hearse's locks before we reached it.

"Clear," Lo reported, pivoting smoothly to cover our new position.

Diego yanked the hearse's rear door open. I practically threw Vincent inside—no time for gentleness—and dove in after him. Lo slammed into the passenger seat just as Diego slid behind the wheel .

Total elapsed time: eleven seconds.

The hearse roared to life, Diego already shifting into reverse before my door fully closed.

We'd practiced this in the Acropolis, but the real thing was violent and efficient poetry that would make other crews weep with envy.

Diego got us moving. In the confined space, Vincent and I untangled ourselves, though the hearse's design kept us close. His shoulder pressed against mine as we settled onto the floor.

A shot cracked against the hearse's reinforced exterior. Our pursuers had reached the garage. But we were already accelerating toward the exit.

"That was..." Vincent's voice came out breathless.

"Eleven seconds," I said, allowing myself a moment of pride. "Not our best time, but decent under fire."

Through the tinted windows, our pursuers converged on our abandoned SUV. The vehicle switch had bought us moments. In our line of work, that was the difference between a clean escape and a body bag.

"Jasper, we need an exit," I called.

The digitized voice returned, an edge of exhilaration cutting through the electronic distortion: "North exit clear for twenty seconds.

Creating diversion." An explosion echoed in the distance, followed by alarms. "Make that forty seconds.

Their communication network just experienced. .. technical difficulties."

"Efficient bastard," Diego muttered, but it sounded like approval.

"Will we make it?" Vincent asked, straightening his tie with hands that barely shook.

"Twelve minutes to spare," I confirmed.

As if summoned, the Escalade reappeared in our mirrors. Persistent fuckers .

"The cemetery's neutral ground," I reminded everyone. What I didn't say: Prometheus might honor that tradition, or he might just decide scorching sacred earth was worth it to drag me back to his collection of broken toys.

Vincent shifted beside me, and I caught the slight wince. Still sore from last night. The inappropriate awareness of that knowledge that I'd marked him inside as thoroughly as any bruise threatened to break through my tactical focus.

The way he looked at me… It was like he was seeing something new, something that affected him in ways his brain couldn't quite process. His pupils were still dilated, but not just from fear.

"How are we going to get out of this?" he asked quietly. "They'll be waiting when we leave the cemetery."

"One problem at a time, doc," I said, loading a fresh magazine. My hands were perfectly steady now, all the tremors burned away by purpose. "First, we get you to Michael's funeral. Then we worry about staying alive."

The hearse blended into traffic, just another vehicle carrying grief through the city.

"I've corrupted their GPS data," Jasper's voice buzzed through comms. "Sending them to the wrong location. You have minutes before they realize."

Eight years. Hephaestus had been dismantling Prometheus's empire piece by piece for eight years. And now he was helping us. If someone that powerful could break free, maybe there was hope for all of us.

The cemetery gates appeared ahead. Sacred ground. Even in our world, some rules held. The Escalade fell back, unwilling to follow. For now .

Vincent exhaled heavily beside me, his hand finding mine in the aftermath of our escape. "Well, that was..." he trailed off, searching for words.

"Just another Tuesday for us, doc," I replied, squeezing his fingers once before releasing them. We both knew this moment of relief was just intermission. The main performance still awaited us.

Diego slowed as we approached the gates, his eyes constantly checking the mirrors. "They'll be waiting when you leave.”

As we passed through the iron gates, my blood chilled. Parked along the winding cemetery road, positioned for perfect visibility of the funeral site, was a familiar black town car. The windows were tinted, but I knew. He was here. Watching. Waiting.

"Is that...?" Vincent started.

"Yes." My jaw clenched. Prometheus had come to watch his show in person. The arrogant fuck was sitting in air-conditioned comfort while we buried Vincent's patient.

Vincent's hand found mine briefly, squeezing hard. Not comfort. Shared rage.

I glanced at Vincent. He'd shifted fully into therapist mode with his spine straight, expression composed, ready to support grieving strangers while assassins circled like sharks. That courage, quiet and unshakeable, hit me harder than any bullet.

"You ready for this?" I asked softly. My hand moved without permission, brushing dust from his lapel.

"Yes," he said, then squeezed my hand. The touch grounded us both. "Thank you, Luka."

The hearse stopped a respectful distance from the green canopy where mourners gathered. As we climbed out, I caught Vincent's hand, fingers interlacing, his pulse against my palm. Alive. Here. Mine .

He squeezed back once before letting go. Time to say goodbye to Michael. Time to pretend we weren't being hunted. Time to honor the dead while staying among the living.

But first, I did a final weapons check. Because the Luka who protected was just as efficient as the one who used to kill. And anyone who tried to touch Vincent would learn exactly what that meant.