Hands that handle weapons like extensions of his own body.
He moves to the windows, adjusts the blackout curtains. Then to the door, reinforcing the locks with additional hardware from a drawer. Every action has purpose.
"Exits?" I ask.
He glances at me, something that might be approval flickering across his face. "Fire escape outside the bedroomwindow. Service stairs we used to come up. Front entrance downstairs has two routes to street level."
"You've used this location before."
"Cerberus maintains safe houses in major cities. This one's been active for a while." He finishes with the door and turns to face me fully for the first time since the warehouse. "You should clean up. Shower's through there. I need to make a call."
I look down at myself. Soot-stained. Disheveled. Blood on my sleeve that I think is his, not mine. Probably smell like smoke and chemicals.
"Will the water be hot?"
"Should be. Building's on municipal system, no reason it wouldn't be." He moves to the bedroom, gestures inside. "Check the closet. Should be something that'll fit. Shoes too."
A hot shower and clean clothes sounds like heaven. Also like a dangerous illusion of normalcy.
"What about you?" I gesture to his neck, where blood has dried in a dark streak. "You're hurt."
"I'll manage."
"You're injured," I correct. "At minimum burns or at least blisters. Possibly cracked ribs given how you're breathing. That needs to be treated before infection sets in or?—"
"Later." His tone brooks no argument. "Call first. Then we assess."
I want to argue. The scientist in me sees a problem requiring immediate solution. But the woman who just fled a burning building recognizes priorities.
Information first. Medical care second.
"Fine." I head toward the bathroom, then pause at the doorway. "Thank you. For going back for the data. For..." I gesture vaguely, encompassing the entire disaster of the evening. "All of it."
Remy's expression doesn't change. "That's the job."
Right. The job.
I turn back. "Who hired you?"
"Can't say."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both." He moves to the window, adjusts the blackout curtains. "You can shower or you can ask questions I can't answer. Your choice."
"What is Cerberus?"
"Private military contractor. We handle situations governments can't or won't touch." He doesn't look at me. "Someone paid us to extract you. That's all you need to know."
"Someone." I cross my arms. "That's not particularly reassuring."
"It's not meant to be reassuring. It's meant to keep you alive." Now he does look at me, and there's something hard in his expression. "You want reassurance, I can't give you that. What I can give you is a safe house, clean clothes, and enough time to figure out next steps. Take it or leave it."
I study him for a long moment. He's right—I don't have better options. And whoever hired Cerberus could have let me die in that warehouse if they wanted me dead.
"Fine." I head into the bathroom.
I'm cargo. A mission objective. The fact that he risked his life to retrieve my research doesn't make this personal. It makes him professional.
