The last truck exploded in a fireball that shook the ground. Dust and silence swallowed the ravine.
Hydra was down. For now.
Beckett turned to me, chest heaving, rifle hanging uselessly from its strap. His hand cupped the back of my neck, steadying me, grounding me. We made it, but that was a close one.”
“You’re safe,” he said, his voice raw.
For the first time, I almost believed him. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Oliver said, as we started walking. We climbed inside the trucks and made our way out of the desert and back to the city. Where we needed to stop and plan our next step?
44
Beckett
The trucks rattled hard over the desert, each dip and rut hammering through my spine. I should’ve felt relief with the Team here, but relief was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Not with Hydra still out there. Not with Elara sitting inches from me, her pulse still racing beneath skin streaked with dust and blood.
She hadn’t said a word since we climbed into the back seat. She just sat with her pistol laid flat across her lap, hair sticking out of her braid everywhere, eyes fixed out the window like the desert itself might swallow her whole.
Oliver drove up front, sunglasses pushed tight against his face, grin flashing in the rearview. “You always did have a talent for finding trouble, Beckett. Hydra chasing you halfway across the desert? That’s a new record.”
“Shut up and drive,” I muttered.
That only made Gage laugh, low and rough. “Relax. We cleared them good. You’re safe now.”
Safe. I wanted to believe that. But every instinct screamed otherwise. Hydra didn’t stop. They regrouped. They adapted. And they sure as hell weren’t finished with Elara.
I caught her hand shifting beside mine, fingers brushing against the back of my knuckles. It was small—so damn small—but it grounded me more than the rifle still clutched in my other hand. I let her hand stay there, just long enough for my pulse to steady.
We weren’t safe. Not yet. But as long as she was breathing beside me, I’d tear apart the desert, Hydra, and anyone else who came hunting for her.
45
Elara
The safehouse wasn’t much more than four walls, a kitchen table, and stale air heavy with old coffee and sweaty men. The Golden Team fell into rhythm the way soldiers always did—checking weapons, patching wounds, unfolding maps like they’d been born for this kind of chaos.
Beckett never stopped moving. He paced between the window and the door, rifle slung loose across his chest, every muscle coiled like steel ready to snap. The others trusted the walls. He didn’t.
I leaned against the table, pistol stripped down beside me. My hands worked automatically, but my head felt like a hornet’s nest. Every Hydra face flashed behind my eyes. Every memory I tried to bury crawled back up my throat.
“You haven’t asked,” I said finally. My voice broke the low hum of activity in the room.
Beckett’s head snapped toward me, eyes sharp. “Asked what?”
“Why Hydra won’t let me go. Why, they’ll chase me to the ends of the earth if they have to.” I forced myself to meet his stare. “What I took from them. What I know.”
The room stilled. The Team didn’t look up, but I felt them listening. Waiting.
Beckett’s jaw worked, a muscle twitching hard. He didn’t press. Didn’t demand. He just crossed the room and stopped in front of me, shadow falling over the table.
“You’ll tell me when you’re ready,” he said, voice low, almost rough. “Until then, don’t think for one second I’m letting you walk back into their hands. Not while I’m still breathing.”
The weight of his words settled like iron against my chest. I should’ve argued. Should’ve pushed him away. But instead, the fear that clawed at me wasn’t about Hydra finding me. It was about them finding him. And what I’d do if I lost him.
46
Roger Grand
The crystal glass shattered against the wall, amber liquid streaking down plaster already scarred by rage. Roger Grand stood over the table, shoulders heaving, breath burning like acid in his throat.
