Dazed, she drags her head up, her eyes wide and wet and empty of fight. She nods without objection or struggle.
That easy obedience shakes me more than anything else.
I keep Jordan close, steering her toward the street, every muscle braced for a new threat.
The dead men sprawled behind us are Falcone’s, no doubt. If not his, then at least working for him.
And they’ve known her general location long enough to set up an ambush, which means we can’t go back to the safe house. They might not know which property belongs to us, but they’ve pinned the area. That’s bad enough.
Time to move.
My car waits two blocks over. Jordan clutches my jacket every step of the way. I pop the lock, open the door, and deposit her in the passenger seat like she’s made of spun glass.
She immediately curls up, winding her arms around her middle and shrinking herself smaller. Like if she squeezes hard enough, she’ll disappear.
I steer us through the network of back streets, taking three separate routes just to be sure.
No one follows today, and Jordan’s silent the entire drive.
Her soft breathing oscillates between fast and slow, and every few seconds I glance over to track the pulse in her neck. Watch the way she edges toward the window, pressing herself closer and closer against the glass, as far from me as the seat belt allows.
She already regrets that split second of trust. The moment she ran to me instead of away.
I can’t fault her for that.
Charging toward the monster doesn’t make sense. Not for someone like Jordan.
But I keep an eye on the widening gap between us, a tide rolling out centimeter by centimeter. Every tiny shift in her body conveys the same thing.
I can manage on my own. I don’t want you. I’m not fooled by your help.
Smart.
The next safe house, a split-level ranch with yellow paint peeling in strips and wild, unruly hedges, is nowhere near as luxurious as the last.
The windows, while intact, feature broken and bent shutters. Faded and forgotten, and easily overlooked, the house sits in a neighborhood no one visits unless they have no choice. Behind the walls, an invisible but leading-edge security system hums.
I swing the car into the garage, waiting until the door rattles shut behind us before releasing a breath and cutting the engine.
In the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of Jordan’s bag, laptop, and cell phone I stowed in the back seat. I’ll retrieve her belongings later.
“Inside.”
She doesn’t argue or even speak. Simply climbs out with her shoulders caved in and all the fight burned out of her. My hand stays on her arm as I guide her. Not as a threat. Just a reminder.
Don’t run.
Not that she would. Not right now.
Dust and stale air permeate the interior space. While Roman keeps the fridge stocked and has equipped the place with blackout blinds and medical supplies like every other Kozlov safe house, this one barely beats a rundown motel room. Kitchen from the sixties. Dull and cracked walls with water-damaged popcorn ceilings. All the furniture is secondhand or sidewalk specials. The doors leading to the two bedrooms and bathroom are cheap, hollow, and peeling. You can smell the carpet on sight.
I grab the first aid kit, lead her to the kitchen, and click on the overhead lights. Every mark on her skin stands out like a headline.
Swollen feet and palms. Legs scraped to hell. A cut on her throat. No lumps or bumps on her head, at least.
From the way she hunches, I bet she’ll have bruises all over by morning. Common problems after a wreck.
“Sit.”
