I turned, catching Elara’s outline in the shadows. She hadn’t moved to hide. She was standing, spine straight, chin up. The faint gleam of a knife in her hand.
“Dammit, Elara,” I hissed. “I said stay down.”
“And wait for them to put a bullet in me? Not a chance.”
The first shot cracked the glass. The window exploded inward, shards scattering across the floor. I shoved her down,covering her body with mine as the walls shook under another barrage.
“Back room, now!” I growled, hauling her toward the hall. We moved low, fast, the safehouse groaning around us as Hydra’s men closed in.
She pulled free halfway down the corridor, spinning to cover my flank. Two shadows surged through the busted door. Her knife flashed once, twice—clean, precise. Both dropped.
For a heartbeat, I just stared. She wasn’t panicked. She wasn’t breaking. She was lethal, controlled, eyes blazing with something Hydra hadn’t taught her—choice.
“Cole!” she barked, snapping me back.
I raised my Glock and put down the third man coming through the door. Then I grabbed her wrist, yanking her toward the back exit.
Outside, the desert night roared with headlights and shouts. Too many of them. Hydra hadn’t come to test us this time. They’d come to take her.
“On me,” I said, voice like iron.
She fell in beside me without hesitation. As we ran into the fire together, I knew two things with absolute certainty:
I’d never let Hydra get to her again—and I was already too far gone to turn back.
27
Elara
The desert swallowed sound, then spat it back in echoes of boots and shouts. Hydra’s men were everywhere. Too many engines. Too many guns.
Beckett’s hand locked around mine, iron and fire, dragging me into the night. Sand kicked up behind us, each step sinking, stealing breath I didn’t have to spare.
“Keep low,” he muttered. “Don’t stop.”
“Why aren’t we taking a vehicle?” I whispered.
“Because they shot it up. Now run.”
The moon cut silver across his shoulders, painting him in light and shadow. I should have been afraid. Instead, I matched him stride for stride, knife gripped tight in my free hand.
Bullets snapped past, biting into rock. He shoved me down behind a jagged outcrop, body covering mine as sparks showered stone. His chest heaved against my back, steady even now.
“You hit?” he demanded.
“No.” The word rasped out, sharp with grit.
“Good.” He leaned just far enough to return fire. Two shots. A scream. Silence. Then headlights arced closer, sweeping across the desert floor.
“They’re circling,” I said, tasting dust and fear.
“Not if we move first.” He yanked me up, pulling me toward a shallow gully cutting through the earth. We slid down, gravel scraping skin, darkness wrapping us tight.
We ran. Crawled. Stumbled. Every muscle burned, lungs tearing, but Beckett never let go of my hand. Not once.
“Why—” My voice broke on the word, but I forced it out. “Why risk this? River told you—”
“River’s not here.” His grip tightened. “I am.”
