Two turns later, the sirens thin. The air opens.
I let out a breath. Talia does the same. Our exhale syncs, and something in my chest goes strange and fierce.
“You okay?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the road.
A beat. “Better when you’re touching me,” she says, so quiet I almost miss it.
My hand tightens on the wheel. I don’t answer. Can’t. I reach anyway, find her waist, anchor her there, thumb brushing the edge of her borrowed shirt. She leans a fraction into it—small, deliberate, a decision with teeth.
Vargas clears his throat in the back. “Don’t get comfortable. Phoenix recalculates. Always.”
“Yeah,” I say. “So do I.”
We slide through a corridor of sleeping brick and glass. The city pretends it doesn’t see us. I let it. Three more turns and we’re a ghost version of ourselves—same occupants, new skin.
“Next move?” Talia asks, steady again, eyes on the dark ahead as if she can will it to make room.
“Nexus,” I say. “But not directly. Gear, med supplies, new plates.” I check the mirror. Clean. “We hit them when they expect us least.”
Vargas shifts, the lead-lined pouch thumping softly against his chest.
“And we give your ‘Root Seed’ a chance to matter,” I add.
“It’ll matter,” he says. “Or we die busy.”
“Not on my list,” I tell him.
I take the next corner—and freeze—the motion a millimeter from completion. Instinct. A shadow on the roofline. Not movement—absence. A space too still in a city that always twitches.
“Hold,” I whisper.
Talia’s fingers tighten around my forearm. She doesn’t ask. She feels it too.
We sit in the hush. Three heartbeats. Four.
A red dot blooms and slides across the sedan’s hood like a lazy firefly deciding where to land.
Talia’s breath stutters. Vargas swears under his.
“Laser designator.” His voice is rough.
The dot crawls toward the windshield.
“Down,” I breathe.
We drop. The dot pauses, searching.
A heartbeat passes. Two. The red eye hovers on the dashboard, patient as death.
“Vargas.” My voice barely disturbs the air. “Tell me you have another EMP.”
“Last one. Shorter range.”
“Range to that rooftop?”
“Pushing it. Maybe forty meters effective.”
The dot slides left, probing the driver’s seat headrest. Whoever’s behind that scope has discipline—no rush, no wasted motion. Professional.
