"And in the meantime?"
"You disappear. Go somewhere he can't find you. Stay off grid until we know he's in custody."
Jackie stands. Pulls her coat tighter. "Emma trusted you to finish this. Don't fuck it up."
"I won't."
She leaves without looking back. I watch through the window as she gets into her blue sedan and drives away. I drop cash on the table for the coffee and head for the exit.
The parking lot is half full. Afternoon crowd at the diner. My car is parked near the back, away from the main entrance. Marc's truck is still positioned where he can see the door.
I'm halfway to my car when something catches my attention. Dark SUV with tinted windows idling near the lot's exit. Someone waiting for takeout, maybe. A rideshare pickup. Nothing to worry about.
Except the angle bothers me. The positioning. It's got a clear view of my car and the exit route. My pulse kicks up. Training I don't have whispers warnings I'm learning to trust.
I keep walking but change direction, angling toward Marc's truck instead of my car. Keep my pace casual. Don't look directly at the SUV. Don't telegraph that I've noticed anything wrong. The asphalt feels endless under my feet. Every step measured.My jacket suddenly feels too tight across my shoulders, the Glock a hard pressure against my spine.
The SUV's engine revs. The sound cuts through the afternoon noise—sharp, deliberate. It pulls forward with purpose, not the slow drift of someone looking for a parking spot. Within seconds it's blocking the main exit.
My mouth goes dry. Definitely not innocent.
I'm still several yards from Marc's truck when movement catches my peripheral vision. Another vehicle pulling into the lot from the side entrance—white van with commercial plates, windows tinted dark enough that I can't see inside. It swings wide, positioning itself to cut off any escape route toward the side street. They're not just following me. They're boxing me in with military precision, coordinating their movements like they've done this before.
The distance to Marc's truck stretches impossibly long. Twenty yards. Fifteen. My hand finds my jacket, fingers closing around the Glock's grip through the fabric. Don't draw yet. Don't escalate. But my heart's hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat, taste copper on my tongue.
Marc's truck door flies open. He steps out fast, his eyes tracking from me to the SUV to the van in one sweep. Professional assessment. His hand moves to his weapon in a smooth, practiced motion that tells me he's reading this situation the same way I am. His mouth moves—probably calling my name—but I can't hear it over the blood rushing in my ears.
The van's side door slides open with a metallic screech.
My hand's on the Glock now, ready to draw, but there's no clear shot from this angle. No cover. Just open pavement between me and Marc's truck, and at least two vehicles full of contractors who've already tried to kill me twice. The smarttactical play would be to assess the threat, identify targets, coordinate with Marc.
I run.
Forget tactics. Forget training. Raw survival instinct takes over and I sprint across the parking lot like my life depends on it. Because it does.
10
MARC
Sela runs.
Weapon drawn, I'm closing the distance between my truck and where she's sprinting across open pavement. A white van's side door gapes open, figures moving inside. Dark shapes I can't identify from this angle, but they're contractors. Armed and professional.
"Sela! Get down!"
Either she doesn't hear me or survival mode has taken over, tunnel vision locked on reaching my truck. The distance between us narrows—yards, then feet—but the van rolls forward to intercept.
My aim shifts toward the van's windshield. Clear shot but firing into a vehicle in a public parking lot with civilians inside the diner crosses too many lines. Turns this from defense into something the law won't forgive.
An SUV blocks the exit, engine revving. The driver's repositioning, trying to cut off Sela's angle. Two-vehicle coordination means they've done this before.
Sela reaches my truck and slides behind it, using the engine block as cover. Her chest heaves, face flushed, but she's focused.She's got the Glock out now, held low against her thigh. I guess she's not just a trauma nurse.
"Get in. Driver's seat."
"What are you?—"
"Now."
