Mrs. Chen glanced at her, still slightly dazed but curious now. "Are you Logan's friend? I saw you coming out of his house earlier this week."
Rachel smiled despite herself. "Yeah. That's me."
"He's a good man." Mrs. Chen's grip on Rachel's arm tightened slightly as they navigated the three steps up to her porch. "Quiet, but good. Always helps me with my trash bins on collection day."
"He is good," Rachel agreed. The image of Ghost quietly helping his elderly neighbor made her chest feel full and tight at the same time.
At the front door, Mrs. Chen fumbled with her keys, her scraped hands making it difficult to get the right one into the lock. Rachel waited patiently, steadying the woman's elbow until the door finally swung open. The interior exhaled cool air that carried the scent of potpourri and paper, the particular smell of a house kept immaculate by someone who'd lived there for decades.
"You should clean those scrapes," Rachel said gently, glancing at the blood still welling on Mrs. Chen's palm. "And ice your knees. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."
"I will. I will." Mrs. Chen patted Rachel's hand, her thin fingers surprisingly warm. "Thank you, dear. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't—"
"You would've been fine," Rachel said, squeezing back once before letting go. "But I'm glad I was there."
She stepped back onto the porch, pulling the door closed with a soft click. The afternoon sun wrapped around her shoulders, and somewhere down the block a sprinkler system kicked on with arhythmic tch-tch-tch. She took a slow breath, letting it fill her lungs completely before releasing it.
For the first time in hours, her shoulders relaxed. Her jaw unclenched. Helping Mrs. Chen had been so simple. So ordinary. No encrypted files or conspiracy networks or men who dealt in weapons and blood money. Just one person helping another. A reminder that normal life still existed outside the dark things she'd been staring at all day.
Rachel turned and started back across the street, her bare feet warm against the sun-heated pavement. Ghost's house sat quiet in the golden light, the windows reflecting sky and palm trees. She was already thinking about a shower. Maybe a glass of wine. Something to wash away—
A sound cut through her thoughts.
Engine noise. High-pitched and aggressive, the whine of a vehicle accelerating hard when it should be slowing for a residential street.
Her head snapped toward it.
A black van, windowless and sleek, was rounding the corner at the end of the block. No plates. The engine roared as it surged forward, eating up the distance between them with predatory speed.
Coming straight at her.
Every instinct Rachel had developed over years of war zones fired at once.
She ran.
Her bare feet slapped against sun-warmed pavement as she sprinted for Ghost's front gate. The metal latch was right there, twenty feet, fifteen, close enough to see the rust spots on the hinges.
The van's side door hissed open while the vehicle was still rolling.
She wasn't going to make it.
Two men hit the pavement running. Black balaclavas hid their faces completely. Their movements were surgical, efficient, practiced, coordinated like they'd done this a hundred times.
Rachel's mouth opened to scream.
A gloved hand clamped over her face, cutting off sound and air in the same motion. The taste of synthetic fabric and salt filled her mouth. An arm locked around her waist, yanking her off her feet with enough force to snap her head back.
She fought on instinct. Her elbow drove backward into ribs, solid contact that barely registered. She kicked, her heel connecting with a shin hard enough to feel bone through the impact. Twisted in their grip, trying to make herself deadweight, anything to slow them down.
Her knee slammed into a thigh, causing one of the attackers to grunt, but the grip didn't loosen.
Terror spiked through her chest, sharp and electric, but Rachel shoved it down. Panic would get her killed. She kept moving, kept fighting, searching desperately for leverage, for an opening, for anything she could use.
It didn't matter.
There were two of them and one of her, and they were stronger, heavier, trained for exactly this. They hauled her backward across the pavement, her toes scraping concrete. She got one more kick in, wild, poorly aimed, before they muscled her through the van's open door.
The panel slammed shut with a hollow bang that reverberated through the metal walls.
