Frank nodded, steadier now with water and the knowledge that someone had come. "Okay. Thank you."
Before I could respond, he pulled me into a quick, fierce hug. He smelled like dust and fear-sweat. Like someone who'd make it through because he was smart and careful.
"Right. Let's go."
Thewalkbackshouldhave taken twenty minutes.
We'd been walking for five when I first noticed it. A car, parked on a side street we'd just passed, that I was certain hadn'tbeen there on my way to the warehouse. Dark sedan. No lights. No movement visible through the windows.
I didn't say anything. Kept walking. Kept my pace steady.
But I started paying attention.
"Never seen it this quiet," Frank said, his voice still rough from dehydration. "It's like everyone disappeared."
"Liminal time," I said, then caught myself. Using medical vocabulary when nervous, classic defense mechanism. "The in-between hours. Most people are asleep."
Behind us, at the edge of my hearing, I caught it. The soft thunk of a car door closing. Distant enough to be nothing. Close enough to be everything.
I grabbed Frank's arm. "Walk faster."
"What—"
"Don't look back. Just walk."
We turned onto a slightly busier street—a few cars now, delivery trucks beginning their morning routes. The normalcy of it should have made my shoulders drop. Instead, my skin prickled. Because now I could see it clearly: a black van, three blocks back, matching our pace exactly. Moving when we moved. Stopping when we stopped at the crosswalk.
They weren't even trying to hide.
"Dr. Cross?" Frank's voice was small. He'd noticed my grip tightening on his arm. "What's wrong?"
"We need to run." The words came out calm, clinical, even as my heart hammered against my ribs. "When I say go, you run. Don't stop for anything. Don't look back."
"I don't understand—"
The van accelerated.
"GO!"
We made it half a block.
The van pulled alongside us, side door already sliding open. Behind us—I heard it now, footsteps, multiple sets, the practicedrhythm of people who did this professionally. They'd been paralleling us. Waiting. Patient as predators.
I'd been so focused on proving Kostya wrong that I'd missed the obvious truth: they hadn't needed Frank to set a trap. They'd been watching the compound. Waiting for me to be stupid enough to leave its protection.
And I'd walked right out the door.
Hands grabbed my arms from behind—one man on each side, grips professionally firm, positioned to control without bruising. Frank was ahead of me, still running, and for one bright moment I thought he might make it.
Then a man stepped out from between two parked cars, directly into his path.
Frank skidded to a stop. Tried to turn. Another man was already there, grabbing his collar.
"No!" The scream tore from my throat.
The man holding Frank's collar looked at me. His face was blank, professional. He reached into his jacket with his free hand.
I knew what was coming. Knew it with the same certainty I'd known when patients weren't going to survive surgery. That terrible clarity that arrives too late to change anything.
