“What?”
“Floorboard. Now.”
He shoves my shoulder.
I duck. Press myself below the dashboard. My heart is trying to claw its way out of my chest. The smell of old fast food and stale cigarettes fills the cramped space.
The car slows. Cruising speed.
I wait for the bullets. For the crash.
Nothing.
Just the hum of the engine and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
“Stay down,” Diego says softly.
I count my breaths. One. Two. Three.
Diego makes a series of turns. Left. Right. Straight. Another left.
Finally: “Clear.”
I don’t move.
“Cassie. You can sit up.”
I drag myself back into the seat. My hands are shaking. Full-body tremors I can’t control.
We’re on the highway. DC is a glow in the rearview mirror.
I turn to him. Really see him for the first time.
Sharp jaw. Shadow of a beard. A smear of blood on his cheekbone—mine or his? He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. Relaxed. Like he didn’t just drive through a war zone.
He extends his hand, palm up.
“Phone.”
“Why?”
“Give it to me, Counselor.”
“It’s my lifeline. My contacts. I need?—”
“You need to not have a GPS beacon in your pocket.”
He doesn’t retract his hand. He waits.
This is the test. Control vs. trust.
He saved me. But he also kidnapped me.
I place the phone in his hand.
He cracks the case and extracts the SIM card.
“What are you doing?”
