“Bayo,” I gasp into the comms. “I’m close. Two blocks out. Where are you?”
“Almost there. One minute.”
One minute. I can survive one minute.
I round a corner and see it—the parking garage, the alley behind it, the extraction point. Sixty feet away. Fifty. Forty.
A van screeches around the corner ahead of me.
It blocks the alley entrance, headlights cutting through the rain, and before I can reverse course there are footsteps behind me, heavy and fast, and I spin to find three men closing in from the way I came.
Trapped.
The van doors slam open. More men pour out. Four, five, six of them, all in tactical black, all moving with the synchronized efficiency of a unit that’s done this before.
I pull my knife.
It’s a stupid move. A knife against six trained operatives is a joke, a gesture, a way of sayingI’m going to make this hurt even if I can’t win. But I’m not going down without a fight. That’s not who I am. That’s not what Cal helped train me to be.
The first one reaches me and I slash low, catching him across the thigh. He stumbles with a grunt and I’m already moving, driving my elbow into the second one’s throat, feeling cartilage crunch under the impact. He goes down choking and I spin, blade up, ready for the third?—
Something slams into my back.
I hit the wet pavement hard, the knife skittering out of my grip, and then there are hands everywhere—grabbing my arms, my legs, pinning me down while I thrash and kick and scream into the rain.
“Get off me! Get the fuck—Help!”
A bag comes down over my head. The world goes dark. I can’t see, can barely breathe through the heavy fabric, and they’rehauling me up now, dragging me toward the van while I fight with everything I have left, kicking everywhere I can, relishing every point of contact, every groan I draw out.
But it’s not enough.
They throw me inside and the floor is cold metal against my bare skin. I hear the doors slam. Feel the engine rumble to life. Smell exhaust and leather and something chemical, like cleaning solution.
“Bayo,” I try to say, but the word comes out muffled, useless. “Bayo, I’ve been lifted…Bayo? They have me.”
Nothing.
There is no response.
My heart goes cold.
The van starts moving.
And then I hear it—a voice cutting through the chaos, calm and cold and terrifyingly familiar. Not from the comms but from inside the van.
“Hello, Ms. Baxter.” A pause, weighted with satisfaction. “Or should I say…the Moth.”
Julia.
I stop struggling. There’s no point anymore. She’s won this round and we both know it.
“You’ve caused quite a bit of trouble,” she continues. The van takes a sharp turn and I slide across the floor, unable to brace myself. “Compromising my asset. Gathering intelligence you had no business gathering. And now poor Callum, dead on a hotel room floor because you couldn’t keep your legs closed.”
Rage flares hot in my chest. “Fuck you.”
“Such language.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “We’ll have to work on that. We’ll have plenty of time, you and I. So much to discuss. So many questions I need answered.”
“I won’t tell you anything,” I grind out, the bag feeling hot and claustrophobic with my breath, with my rage.
