“You took everything from me,” Elena said, her voice barely above a whisper. “My career. My identity. My mother. Five years of my life. You turned my work into a weapon against the very people it was supposed to protect.”
“And yet here we are,” Webb replied, still smiling. “With your gun against my chin and your finger on the trigger. But we both know how this ends. You’re not a killer, Elena. Even with all of your DARPA training, with your field training, you’re a scientist.A creator.” His smile widened. “You don’t have the stomach for this type of thing.”
Elena’s resolve wavered.
She wanted to pull the trigger. She wanted it more than she’d ever wanted anything. This man had destroyed her life, had forced her to abandon everyone she loved, had spent five years hunting her like an animal. He deserved to die. He deserved worse than death.
But her finger wouldn’t move.
“I can’t,” she said finally.
Webb leaned back, laughing.
“ButIcan.”
The shot rang out like thunder.
Elena flinched, her ears ringing, her finger still frozen on the trigger of her own weapon.
Webb’s knees buckled, then he collapsed against the table, sending glasses and silverware crashing to the floor before sliding to the ground in a heap of expensive fabric and pooling blood.
Reed’s voice cut through the chaos. “Elena!”
Elena spun to find him right there as the restaurant erupted into controlled pandemonium.
“FBI! Everyone down!”
“Hands where we can see them!”
“On the ground! Now!”
Reed gently took the Glock from her fingers, his blue eyes searching her face with an intensity that made her chest ache. He said something, but the words didn’t register over the ringing in her ears.
“Elena.” His voice finally broke through, sharp with concern. “Elena, look at me. Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, though she wasn’t entirely sure it was true. Her scalp throbbed where Webb had grabbed her. But noneof that seemed to matter. None of it seemed real. “I am trained to handle this and I failed.”
“Let’s get her out of here,” Reed said to someone over his shoulder—Walker, maybe, or one of the FBI agents. Elena couldn’t tell. Everything was blurring together. “She’s in shock.”
Reed’s strong arms wrapped around her, lifting her off her feet.
Elena instinctively clutched at Reed’s shoulders, burying her face against his neck as he carried her through the restaurant. She caught glimpses of the scene as they passed—agents photographing evidence, medics working frantically over Webb’s prone form, civilians being escorted out through emergency exits.
The night air hit her like a wave, cool and clean after the closed-in chaos of the restaurant.
Reed didn’t stop, didn’t slow down. He carried her across the street to where the surveillance van was parked, its side door already sliding open.
Terrel’s face appeared in the opening, his expression tight with worry. “Is she okay? Is she hurt?”
“She’s not hurt,” Reed said, his voice strained. “But we need to get her somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet.”
Reed settled her onto the bench seat inside the van, then slid in beside her and pulled her against his chest. The door slammed shut, cutting off the sounds of sirens and shouting, and then they were moving.
Elena didn’t know how long they drove. Time had become elastic, stretching and contracting in ways that made no sense. At some point, she became aware that they had stopped, that Reed was carrying her again—up stairs this time, through a door, into a room that smelled like coffee and gun oil.
The safe house.
Reed set her down on a couch, and the loss of his warmth was like a physical ache.
