Xavier positioned himself half a step ahead, body angled to shield me from the long shadows pooling between buildings. His palm stayed near the knife we’d bought at a sporting goods store. Twenty euros, terrible balance, but better than nothing.
He nodded once. Agreed. Going anyway.
Yeah. That summed it up.
We’d argued this morning. Well, I’d argued. Xavier had written three words on the notepad: Only option left.
Hard to counter that when he was right.
The complex drew closer. Chain-link fence torn open, graffiti covering every surface that would hold paint. Shipping containers stacked like building blocks, doors hanging open on darkness.
My skin crawled.
Xavier walked differently today. I’d noticed it during the two-hour trek from our abandoned hideout. Something off in the fluidity, tension riding his shoulders that went beyond normal vigilance.
His fingers flexed. Opened, closed. Repeat.
“You okay?”
He glanced back. Nodded.
Liar.
But I didn’t push. We had bigger problems than whatever was making his jaw tight.
The sleet turned vicious, ice needles stinging exposed skin. I pulled my hood tighter, squinting through the downpour.
No movement. No sound except weather battering metal and our footsteps echoing on wet pavement.
“If this is a trap, I’m going to be really annoyed. Posthumously annoyed, but still.”
Xavier’s fingers found mine. Squeezed once.
With you.
Right. We were in this together. Had been since that alley. No backing out now.
The entrance gaped ahead. Darkness and rain and the weight of every terrible decision that had led us here.
Xavier checked the perimeter one more time. His palm settled against the small of my back, steadying, protective.
Then we stepped inside.
The man materialized from the shadows.
One second, the warehouse doorway was empty, sleet cutting through the gap in gray sheets. The next, he stood there.
Tall, wearing a dark peacoat that probably cost more than my entire nursing school tuition, breaking the cardinal rule of this neighborhood: don’t look worth robbing. Except no one with a functioning survival instinct would try. He held himself with the same coiled stillness I’d spent the last week watching in Xavier.
The resemblance was terrifying. Not in the face. This guy had darker eyes, sharper angles, a cruelty to his mouth that Xavier’s lack of memory seemed to have softened. But in the build. They were cut from the same cloth.
Xavier reacted instantly.
His arm shot out, a hard bar of muscle across my ribs, shoving me behind him. The blur was so fast I barely registered it. His other palm went to the pathetic knife in his pocket, his body dropping into a combat crouch that screamed violence.
My pulse hammered. Great. Another one.
“Relax, Blackout.” His accent was American, bored, and carried effortlessly over the sound of the rain. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have heard me approach.”
