He's behind the wheel before I can reconsider. "Phone."
"What?"
"Your phone. Now." His hand extends, palm up. Not a request.
I hesitate. My phone has contacts, sources, and some backup files.
"The Committee is tracking you through it. You want to lead them straight to where we're going?" His voice stays flat. "Phone. Last time I'm asking."
I pull it from my pocket, and hand it over. He powers it down, then pulls to the side of the road. His fingers work with practiced efficiency—back panel off, battery out, SIM card extracted. Each component goes into a separate pocket.
"My entire life was on that phone."
"Your entire life stays intact because you don't have that phone."
He pulls back onto the road, drives three blocks, tosses the battery out the window. Two blocks later, the SIM card disappears into a storm drain. Another mile and the phone itself goes into a dumpster behind a closed gas station. The enginegrowls as we merge onto the highway, modifications well beyond factory standard evident in how the SUV accelerates. This vehicle was built for more than city driving.
"Seatbelt," he says.
I buckle in. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere the Committee can't find you. Somewhere you can't accidentally publish any more breadcrumbs leading them to my team." He pulls out of the parking lot, movements smooth and controlled. Like he's done this a thousand times. Extracted assets, relocated targets, moved pieces on a board I can't see.
"I'm not an asset to be relocated."
"You're a security breach who happens to have six months of Committee research we need." He takes a corner without slowing much. The SUV handles it like it's glued to the road. "But you're also a person who's about to be tortured for information you don't actually have. So forgive me if I'm not particularly concerned about your feelings regarding asset management."
The bluntness hits harder than any threat. The casual way he talks about torture. Like it's inevitable. "So why save me at all? Why not just let the Committee have me?"
"Because you have six months of research that maps connections we haven't found. And because you're worth more to us alive and cooperative than dead or in Committee custody." He glances at me. "But mostly because leaving you for them doesn't sit right. Call it a character flaw."
His hands stay steady on the wheel, eyes constantly scanning the mirrors and the stretch of road in front of us. He always seems to be thinking three moves ahead.
Nausea rolls through my stomach. I've written about torture. Documented it. Interviewed survivors who still wake up screaming years later. But there's a difference between knowing it exists and being told you're next on the table.
"Why should I trust you?"
"You shouldn't. But I'm currently the only thing standing between you and people who make monsters look civilized. So trust isn't really the issue here. Survival is."
We drive in silence for twenty minutes. The city falls away behind us, replaced by darkness and mountains. Dylan's eyes never stop moving. Mirrors, road, shadows between the trees. Planning contingencies for threats that might not even exist yet.
I watch him in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. Trying to read him the way I read sources and subjects. Looking for tells, weaknesses, leverage.
He notices. "You won't find answers by staring at me."
"I'm good at reading people."
"I'm good at not being read." He doesn't look at me. Doesn't need to. "Save your investigative instincts for later. You're going to need them."
"For what?"
"Convincing my team not to kill you."
The casual delivery makes it worse. Simple statement of fact.
"Your team wants me dead?"
"You threatened what we've built. Exposed our general location to the people hunting us. Put innocent lives at risk because you couldn't resist publishing your findings." His voice stays level, but there's an edge beneath it. Controlled fury. "So yeah. Some of them want you dead. I'm arguing you're worth more alive. Don't make me regret it."
