Everything slows to a crawl. Marissa's hand tightens on her wine glass. The guards reach for their weapons. The Conductor's smile widens as he realizes he's cornered his prey.
And I make my choice.
My hand moves to the concealed knife. The guards' hands close around their weapons. Marissa's eyes find mine across the terrace, and in that instant, I see her make the same calculation I just did. We're not walking out of here quietly. We're not maintaining cover. We're not playing by anyone's rules anymore.
The wine glass tilts in her hand. Red liquid spills across expensive tile.
13
MARISSA
The wine glass tilts in my hand before conscious thought catches up to instinct. Red liquid spills across expensive tile, and in that instant, everything ignites. Guards surge forward. Archer's knife clears his pocket in a blur of motion. The Conductor steps back, barking orders. And I'm already moving, muscle memory from years undercover taking over, transforming Marissa into the weapon the Iron Choir thinks Nocturne should be.
The nearest guard reaches for his sidearm. I'm faster. My heel connects with his knee, and the joint buckles with a sickening pop. He goes down hard against Moroccan tile. I take his weapon as he falls, chambering a round while pivoting toward the next threat.
But Archer is already there. Every motion is precise and lethal, no wasted movement, pure efficiency. His knife finds the gap between body armor and throat on the second guard. The man drops without a sound. Blood spreads across expensive tilework in patterns that look almost beautiful in the lantern light.
My breath comes fast and shallow. Adrenaline floods my system, sharpening every sense. The scent of gunpowder mixingwith jasmine from the gardens. The metallic taste of fear in my mouth. The weight of the stolen weapon in my hands.
More guards pour onto the terrace. The Conductor has retreated behind a wall of bodies, still shouting orders, still trying to regain control of a situation that went sideways the moment I spilled the wine. Archer positions himself between me and the incoming threat, and my body responds before my mind catches up. He's protecting me, not because I'm his asset or his mission, but because I'm his.
"Stay close," he says, voice carrying that command that makes my entire body want to obey. "We move together."
"Got it," I agree, pressing my back to his.
Everything else falls away except movement and reaction. A guard appears on my left, weapon raised. I fire center mass, multiple shots, and he crumples. Archer takes down another on his right with brutal efficiency. We move as a unit, instinct and training synchronizing in ways that shouldn't be possible for two people who've known each other such a short time.
But it doesn't feel short. Fighting beside him feels like the most natural thing in the world.
We make it to the archway leading back to the main courtyard. Archer grabs my hand, pulling me through as bullets chip tilework behind us. His fingers lace through mine, grip tight enough to anchor me through the chaos.
"Stay with me," he says, and it's not a request but a promise. He's not letting go. No matter what.
The courtyard has transformed into a war zone. Guests scatter in elegant panic. Guards take up defensive positions. Koval stands near the main entrance, weapon drawn but not raised, watching our approach with an expression I can't quite read.
We're exposed here. Too many angles, too many guns, not enough cover. My tactical mind catalogs our odds and comes upwith numbers that don't favor survival. We need a vehicle, need an exit, need a miracle.
Koval's gaze locks with mine across the courtyard. Time suspends. Just him and me and the weight of years pretending to be something I'm not. He trained me when I first infiltrated the Iron Choir. Taught me how to move through their world without getting killed. Part of me wonders if he always suspected the truth.
His weapon shifts slightly, angling away from us. His lips move, and even through the chaos, I hear him clearly.
"Go, Nocturne. You have less than a minute."
Archer doesn't question the gift. He pulls me toward the estate's perimeter where vehicles sit in neat rows. Guards are still organizing, still receiving orders, still trying to understand why one of their senior operatives just let their targets run. The confusion buys us precious time.
We reach a black SUV, windows tinted dark enough to hide sins. Archer yanks the door open and I slide into the driver's seat while he takes the passenger side, already returning fire through his window as I start the engine.
"Go," he commands, and I floor it. Tires scream as we barrel toward the estate's main gate. Bullets spark off the armored body, spiderweb the reinforced glass. The SUV is built for this, but the sheer volume of fire is overwhelming.
Archer empties his magazine providing cover, then ejects the spent clip. "Switch," he says. "I drive, you shoot."
We manage the swap while the SUV is still moving, a chaotic tangle of limbs and weapons and adrenaline. Then Archer's behind the wheel and I'm braced in the passenger seat with a fresh weapon, and we're through the gate and onto the winding mountain road with headlights appearing behind us.
Multiple vehicles in pursuit. Professional drivers trained by the same organization that taught me how to disappear. Theyknow these roads, know how to corner at speeds that should be impossible, know exactly how to execute a moving kill.
Archer drives like he fights: precise, efficient, lethal. He takes turns that make my stomach drop, threads the needle between cliff face and sheer drops with inches to spare. The SUV's armor is holding, but the pursuing vehicles are gaining. They're lighter, faster, built for pursuit rather than protection.
I lean out my window and fire, trying to slow them down. One vehicle swerves, loses control, crashes into the mountainside in a shower of sparks and twisted metal. Two more take its place.
