“They sedated her instead of killing her,” I say. “They tightened restraints instead of transferring custody. They rerouted instead of landing.”
I meet his eyes, hard and certain.
“They still need her.”
And that was their mistake.
Because Lena Hart wasn’t leverage.
She was a countdown.
Somewhere in the dark, deeper into enemy territory, she woke up angry, injured, and very much alive.
I touch the watch at my wrist—the one that always keeps time even when the world breaks.
“Hold on,”I murmur to no one.“I felt you move.”
And I was already moving faster.
7
Lena
Cold woke me.
Not the sharp kind that shocks you awake—the heavy, bone-deep cold that sinks in before you even realize you’re conscious. It wrapped around my ribs, slid between my shoulders, and settled there like it planned to stay.
I forced my eyes open.
Stone ceiling. Rough-hewn. Moisture clinging to the rock like breath held too long. The air smelled of antiseptic and iron…and something older. Forgotten.
Mountains.
My first attempt to move failed. Pain flared white-hot along my ribs, down my left side, straight through my lungs. I bit back a sound, breath coming shallow.
Cracked. Not broken.
I tested carefully. Everything still answered. Slow—angry—but intact.
Good.
A blanket had been thrown over me. Thin. Oleanders of frost edged the metal bed beneath. My wrists were free, butnot out of mercy. My ankle was shackled—to the wall this time. Heavy. Industrial.
They’d learned.
I swung my legs slowly, breath controlled, posture deliberate. There were no windows. Just a steel door, sealed tight, and a soft light recessed into the ceiling—steady, not flickering.
Medical facility. Repurposed.
I pressed two fingers to my wrist. Pulse sluggish but strong. Sedation wearing off.
The door opened without warning.
A woman entered.
Mid-forties. White coat. Dark hair pulled back too tight. Her hands were steady—the kind that belonged to someone used to pain.
“You’re awake sooner than expected,” she said clinically.
