Remy glances at me, just for a second, before returning attention to the road. "I'm aware."
"How badly are you hurt?"
"I'll live." He takes another turn, this one onto a quieter street lined with apartment buildings. Glances at the mirrors. "You?"
"Uninjured." A miracle, considering. "Where are we going?"
"Safe house. Just a little bit further."
A safe house sounds absurd. Nothing about the last hour has been safe. Nothing about the next hour will be either, given that people apparently want me dead—or worse.
The people I worked for want me dead, preferably before I can tell anyone what I know. They already have my research, already have what I helped them build. What they don't want is my testimony.
This Lazarev person wants Remy. Or so I gather from what he said.
And I'm caught between them because I was naive enough to believe my aerosolized delivery system would save lives instead of ending them.
Guilt rises sharp and bitter. I force it down. Later. When I'm not running for my life.
Remy pulls into an underground parking garage, the kind that services multiple buildings. He drives past the first levels before parking on a lower floor, backing into a spot that gives him clear sight lines to both elevators and the exit ramp.
Parking with purpose. Of course.
The engine dies. He sits for a moment, listening. Windows down despite the cold. He's evaluating threats before moving.
When he does move, it's fluid. Out of the truck, scanning the garage, one hand hovering near the weapon holstered at his hip. His other hand gestures for me to follow.
I grab my bag and comply.
Across the garage, through a service door that he unlocks with a key he retrieves from above the frame. Up stairs—he takes them faster than I'd like given his injuries, but I keep pace. My feet are bare against cold concrete, shoes lost somewhere in the chaos.
The safe house sits on an upper floor. Industrial space, exposed brick and metal beams. Remy unlocks multiple locks before pushing the door open.
He pulls me inside, closes the door behind us, and positions me with my back against it. "Stay here." Then he moves deeper into the apartment, weapon drawn, clearing it room by room.
I stay put, listening to him move. Closets opening. Furniture shifting. The thorough search of someone who knows what to look for and doesn't take shortcuts.
"Clear," he calls from inside.
I throw the deadbolt and step away from the door.
Sparse. Functional. A main room with kitchenette, one bedroom visible through an open door, bathroom presumably attached. Furniture that looks comfortable but generic—nothing personal, nothing that couldn't be abandoned at a moment's notice. Large windows overlooking the street, currently covered with blackout curtains.
And weapons.
A locked cabinet against one wall opens to reveal an arsenal that makes my stomach clench. Long guns. Pistols. Ammunition. Things I don't have names for but recognize as instruments designed to kill efficiently.
He selects items, checks mechanisms, loads magazines. Each movement economical.
I set my bag on the small table and watch him work.
Watching him is becoming a problem.
In the warehouse, survival instinct overrode everything else. Run. Trust. Follow. Don't question the man who's keeping you alive.
Now, in this temporary sanctuary, details emerge that survival buried before.
Remy is a large man. Not bulky, but solid. Built from functional strength, not aesthetics. Tactical gear emphasizes it—vest, holsters, and the utility belt with its various tools of destruction. Dark hair cropped close. Strong jaw. Dark eyes that miss nothing.
