"I can't—" She gestures to the laptop taped to her body. "This has to stay with me. It's the only proof of what they're planning."
I pull out my knife, and she tenses until she realizes I'm cutting the duct tape, not threatening her. My hands work carefully around the computer, trying not to touch her, but proximity is unavoidable. She smells like fear-sweat and jasmine perfume, an oddly intoxicating combination.
"Ninety-six hours." Her voice is urgent. "They're going to poison the water supply in LA. Tens of thousands will die."
The laptop comes free, and she clutches it against her chest. This close, I can see the exhaustion beneath the adrenaline—dark circles, the hollow of too many missed meals, the particular worn look of someone who's been running on empty.
"Who's 'they'?"
"The Prometheus Network. Domestic terror cell. My partner—" Her voice catches. "My former FBI partner is part of it. He tried to kill me three nights ago."
Sirens wail in the distance, getting closer. I check the window—more black SUVs are arriving.
"We're leaving. Can you run?"
She nods, already moving toward her bedroom. "I need ten seconds."
I follow, watch her grab a messenger bag, and shove the laptop inside, along with a handful of USB drives from a hidden panel behind her dresser. She's planned for this, prepared for running.
"How do we get out?" She slings the bag across her body. "They'll have the stairwells covered."
I move to her bedroom window and check the distance to the adjacent building. "We go out, not down. You afraid of heights?"
Her face pales. "Terrified."
"Then don't look down."
I pull the rappelling gear from my pack and secure the anchor to the reinforced window frame. When I turn back, she’s standing there, wide-eyed, breath hitching. The nylon harness dangles from my hands like a promise.
I step in close—closer than I should.
My chest brushes her shoulder as I loop the strap around her waist. She smells like rain-soaked ash and wildflowers crushed under boot soles. My knuckles graze the curve of her hip as I thread the buckle through.
Her breath catches, a sharp sound swallowed by the hum of the storm outside.
“Hold still.” My voice comes out lower than I intend. Rough.
Her pulse flutters in her throat as I cinch the strap tight, the movement dragging her hips flush against mine. Heat sparks in the narrow space between us, electric and dangerous.
She looks up, lips parted. Fear and adrenaline blur together in her eyes—and something else, something that burns hotter than the fire waiting beyond the window.
"I can't—" She looks out the window and immediately steps back. "I can't do this."
Footsteps thunder in the hallway. Multiple hostiles, moving fast.
I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me instead of the drop. "Hey. Eyes on me. What's your name?"
"Savi. Everyone calls me Savi."
"Okay,Savannah. I'm Sawyer. I'm going to get you out of this, but I need you to trust me for the next thirty seconds. Can you do that?"
She nods, jaw set with determination that probably gets her through most things. Good. She’ll need it.
I clip her harness to mine, chest to chest, her arms around my neck. "Close your eyes. Hold on to me. Don't let go."
The door explodes inward. No time for gentle.
I wrap one arm around her waist, grip the rope with my other hand, and step backward out the window.
