Then I felt her hand on my arm, steady and warm even in the middle of hell. Elara. She hadn’t let go.
And that single touch hit me harder than the blast. Because no matter how many men Grand threw at us, no matter how many traps he set—
I wasn’t letting her go either.
65
Beckett
The fireball tore the night apart.
Heat slammed into my chest, the shockwave rattling the ground beneath my boots. Shrapnel whined past, shards of steel biting into stone. Hydra men screamed as the truck buckled and collapsed in on itself, flames clawing higher with every second.
“Move!” I barked, dragging Elara into the alley before the smoke swallowed us whole.
The Team surged behind—River laying suppressive fire, Oliver steady and controlled, Gage laughing like a maniac as he mowed down anyone still dumb enough to push through the blaze. Cyclone brought up the rear, tablet pressed tight against his vest, voice sharp in our ears.
“Southside’s blocked. West grid’s got another patrol closing fast. We don’t have long before this whole sector locks down.”
“We’ll make it,” I snapped. My chest still burned from the blast, ears ringing, but I forced my body forward, rifle raised, every sense wired to the edge. Hydra wasn’t broken. Not yet.
Elara stumbled once over the rubble, but I had her up before she hit the ground, my grip iron around her wrist. She shot me a look—half fury, half something softer—but she didn’t pull away.
“You nearly got yourself killed back there,” she hissed.
I met her eyes, heat and fire pressing in from all sides. “Not nearly enough.”
Her breath caught, words dying in her throat, but I couldn’t let myself linger. Not here. Not now.
“River, clear the way!”
“Already on it,” he called, his rifle barking sharp bursts into the dark. The alley narrowed, shadows crawling closer, gunfire echoing down the brick walls. Hydra was regrouping fast.
They wanted her alive. I could see it in the way they closed, the way they held back their deadliest firepower. And that made them dangerous as hell. Because it meant they’d keep coming. It meant this city would burn before they gave her up.
Not while I was standing.
I shouldered my rifle, every shot carving another body from the tide. My pulse hammered, steady, brutal, the world narrowing to a single, unshakable truth—
Hydra had her in their sights.
But to take her, they’d have to cut through me first.
And that wasn’t happening.
66
Elara
The alley stank of smoke and blood. My lungs burned with every breath, dust coating my tongue, the taste of iron sharp in the back of my throat. Behind us, the fire still raged, flames clawing into the night sky, painting Hydra’s emblem in smoke.
We’d made it through. Barely.
Beckett still had my wrist clamped in his grip like he was afraid if he let go, I’d vanish. His chest rose and fell in harsh, steady bursts, sweat and grime streaking down his jaw, rifle still locked in his other hand. He looked every bit the soldier—untouchable, unbreakable.
But I’d seen him throw himself into that fire. I’d seen him make a choice no sane man would make. And it shattered something inside me.
“You nearly died back there,” I hissed, my voice sharper than I meant.
