The alley spits us onto a side street. Jackson doesn’t hesitate, engine screaming as he races toward the next intersection. Another vehicle appears, speeding to intercept.
Jackson cuts right again, tires protesting. We’re hidden between dumpsters and loading docks before they round the corner. He kills the engine, the sudden silence deafening.
“Off.”
One word, but I understand. My legs shake as I dismount. He swings off, already scanning exits.
“Can you run?”
I nod, though my ribs protest.
“Stay close. Silent.”
He guides me deeper into the alley system, hand on my elbow, pace punishing. Every footfall feels too loud. Every shadow could hide the men who killed Victor. The organization behind Morrison’s death. Whoever they are.
Jackson moves like smoke in the dark—quiet, purposeful, every step absorbed by the night. The alley’s narrow, slick with rain, dumpsters hulking like shadows within shadows, andhe slips between them without sound. His head tilts, tracking movement I can’t hear, eyes cutting through the gloom as if he can read the city’s pulse. One hand ghosts toward the weapon at his hip, the other steady, relaxed, deliberate.
He doesn’t just move through danger; he studies it, feels it. Every shift of his shoulders, every pause, is precision. Controlled violence waiting for permission.
I try to follow, but gravel crunches under my boots, loud as gunfire in the hush. My breath scrapes my throat, ragged and too human. He glances back once, eyes catching the dim streetlight—cold, assessing, a silent command to keep up—and then he melts forward again, a phantom drawn by purpose.
The alley swallows him whole. I hurry after, chasing the echo of a man who seems carved from the night itself.
We emerge onto a side street. Normal foot traffic, people heading home from bars, oblivious. Jackson pulls me against him, arm around my shoulders instead of my waist, and suddenly I’m pressed along his entire side. He has to lean down to accommodate our height difference, his breath warm against my ear.
“Just a couple walking,” he murmurs, lips barely moving. “Relax.”
Relax. His body heat burns through my torn shirt. Every step presses me against him—hip to hip, ribs to ribs. His arm is heavy across my shoulders, hand hanging down to rest against my upper arm. When he turns his head to scan the street, his stubble brushes my temple.
The forced intimacy makes my head spin. Where is he taking me? What’s the plan? The not knowing gnaws at me, but my voice still won’t work.
Jackson stops abruptly. His arm tightens, pulling me into a doorway.
Across the street, a nondescript sedan idles where it shouldn’t. Two men stand near it, postures all wrong for casual conversation. One keeps checking his phone in that way that screams surveillance.
“Shit.” Jackson’s voice cuts the air, low and sharp against my ear.
He pivots fast, dragging me deeper into the alley’s labyrinth. Boots splash through oily puddles. Echoes chase us—multiple footsteps, closing in, too coordinated to be random.
Jackson’s pace doubles. My ribs scream; black edges claw at my vision. The world narrows to motion, breath, and the relentless slap of pursuit.
We turn a corner—dead end. Brick on three sides. Dumpster. Trash. No escape.
He assesses in a heartbeat.
“Behind the dumpster,” he orders, shoving me toward it. “Down. Cover your ears.”
The metal reeks of rot and rain. I crouch, trembling, peering through rusted gaps as Jackson kneels in the open, coat flaring, every move efficient, precise. He pulls a small black device from his jacket—compact, lethal. His fingers fly across it like he’s done this a thousand times.
My mind races. Explosive. In a boxed alley. The pressure will?—
Stop thinking. Footsteps close in. Muffled voices coordinate.
Jackson plants the charge low on the wall, angled down. He’s calculating airflow, debris patterns—survival odds.
Three men appear at the mouth of the alley, weapons raised.
“Drop it!”
