I feed coins into the phone. Dial the emergency protocol number. It rings. Four times. Long enough that panic starts creeping in.
Then: “Parlance.” Viktor’s voice. Clipped. Professional.
“It’s Frost.”
Silence. Long enough that I wonder if he heard.
Finally: “Where are you?”
“Cascade range. Small town called—” I squint at a sign “—Timber Ridge. About forty klicks from the convoy site.”
“The convoy site that was ambushed. Where Jericho Allon was being transported.”
“Yes.”
“Are you alone?” Careful. Loaded.
I pause. “No.”
The silence stretches longer this time.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
I hear him breathing. Thinking. Calculating implications.
“Nadia.” His voice drops. Goes cold. “Do you plan to kill him?”
The question shakes me. My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Because the answer should be yes. Should be immediate. Should be the only truth I have left. But I’m standing here bleeding from a wound he could have let kill me. After he shifted—became something terrifying and beautiful—and flew me to safety when he could have just left. When he could have dropped me mid-flight. When he could have done anything except tuck me carefully against his chest and keep me safe.
I see Chance’s face. His smile. The bond between us that snapped like a rope cut mid-flight and left me drowning.
I see Jericho offering his wrists for the cuffs last night. The way he didn’t fight back. The way he’s been letting me decide everything because my choices somehow matter more than his survival.
I see hate crumbling under the weight of biology and proximity and something I don’t understand.
“I don’t know.” The words are quiet. Broken. They escape before I can stop them. Before I can pull them back and replace them with the lie I should be telling.
Silence on the other end.
My chest feels too tight. Like I’ve confessed something unforgivable. Betrayed everything Chance deserved. Everything I came here to do. Everything Iam. Because if I’m not the woman who kills Jericho Allon—who am I?
“Jesus, Frost.” Viktor finally speaks. Low. Surprised.
“The Syndicate is still hunting him,” I say. Pushing past the confession. “There was a sniper team at the convoy site. We barely got out.”
“Define ‘barely.’”
“I’m hit. Shoulder. Not serious.”
“And Allon?”
“Uninjured.”
“Is he restrained?”
