Not exactly. But close enough. The Chicago warehouse. When my cover got blown and three armed men tried to kill me before federal backup arrived. A forklift. A propane tank. Sheer desperation.
It worked. Barely.
It'll work now. It has to.
The radio crackles again. "Ms. Kane. Sheriff. We're coming in. Please don't make this difficult."
"Sixty seconds," Rhys says. "On my mark."
The heater's feed line disconnects with a quick twist. Propane hisses into the air immediately—sharp, chemical, dangerous. Rhys wedges the back window open while I grab my laptop and the security hard drive, shove them in my jacket, zip it tight. The propane smell is overwhelming now, making my eyes water.
"Thirty seconds," he says.
The figures are closer. Twenty yards from the entrance. Weapons raised. Moving with purpose.
"Fifteen seconds."
The mixture needs to be exact—too rich and the explosion won't work, too lean and same problem. But the air's flooded with propane now, and oxygen pours through the open window.
"Go."
Through the window, dropping to the snow bank outside. My boots hit and sink six inches. Cold bites through my jeans where snow packs against my shins. Rhys follows, lands beside me with barely a sound despite his size. We're ten yards from the building when he stops, raises his rifle, sights through the window at the propane tank.
"Cover your ears."
My palms press against my head. The world goes muffled—just wind and my own heartbeat thundering in my chest. Through my fingers, I watch Rhys's shoulders shift as he adjusts his stance. The rifle barrel tracks steady despite the wind.
The crack splits the air.
For half a second, nothing. The window spider-webs where the bullet punched through. The propane tank sits there, intact, mocking us.
Then the world tears itself apart.
The explosion isn't just sound—it's pressure, a wall of force that slams into my chest and drives the air from my lungs. My feet leave the ground. The snow bank catches me hard, drives frozen crystals into my face and down my collar. My head snaps back. Stars burst across my vision.
Heat rolls over me in a wave that sears exposed skin. The building erupts—not just flames but a fireball that climbs into the gray sky, orange and black and hungry. Windows don't just break, they vaporize. Glass becomes shrapnel that hisses through the air above us. Metal screams as support beams twist and buckle. The roof collapses inward with a sound like thunder.
My ears ring so loud I can't hear anything else. Can't hear the secondary explosions as office equipment ignites. Can't hear the men shouting. Can't hear my own gasping breaths as I try to suck air back into my lungs.
Rhys's hand clamps around my arm, hauls me upright. His mouth moves—words I can't process through the ringing. But his meaning is clear. The look in his eyes. The way he's already pulling me toward his truck.
Run.
My legs don't want to work. The blast scrambled my balance, turned my inner ear into a carnival ride. But training takes over. One foot in front of the other. Don't think. Just move.
The snow drags at my boots. Each step takes effort, muscles burning as I push through the drifts. Fifty yards to the truck. Might as well be fifty miles.
Behind us, men are shouting—confused voices cutting through the roar still echoing in my skull. The explosion scattered them, but they're regrouping. Professional operators don't stay scattered long.
Forty yards. My lungs scream for air. The cold burns going down, makes my chest ache. But I keep moving. Keep pushing.
Thirty yards.
Movement in my peripheral vision. A figure emerging from behind the equipment shed—one of the traffickers, rifle already coming up. Time slows. I see him tracking us. See his finger moving toward the trigger.
Rhys sees him too. Doesn't break stride. Just pivots, brings his rifle up in one smooth motion. Three shots crack out so fast they almost sound like one. The figure jerks. Stumbles. Falls face-first into the snow and doesn't move.
Center mass. Perfect grouping. The man never had a chance.
