"Don't know yet. Could be the truck, could be something else." He's pulling items from drawers, checking the room with sharp efficiency. "Doesn't matter right now. We need to move."
I find leggings and a sweater two sizes too large in the bedroom closet, socks, and a pair of slip-on sneakers. I'm yanking on the leggings when Remy appears in the doorway.
"Half a minute," he says. "Front entrance is blocked. We're going out the fire escape."
My stomach drops. "The fire escape?"
"You wanted exits. Now we use them."
I pull the sweater over my head and shove my feet into the sneakers, grab my messenger bag. "Ready."
Remy is at the bedroom window, forcing it open, cold air rushing in.
Outside, stories up, a metal ladder descends into darkness.
"After you," he says.
I look at the drop, at the flimsy metal platform, at the street below where figures are moving in the shadows.
Then I look at Remy, at the calm certainty in his face that says he's done this a hundred times before and will do it a hundred times again.
"This is insane," I say.
"Probably." He gestures to the window. "But it's better than the alternative."
I take a breath, grip my bag tight, and climb out into the night.
3
REMY
Isabella doesn't hesitate. That's the first thing I notice as she climbs through the window onto the fire escape. No freezing, no second-guessing, just movement. Hesitation gets you killed.
I follow her out, weapon in one hand, scanning the street below. Figures moving in the shadows near the building entrance. Several, probably more. Professional spacing. They're not cops—cops would have lit the place up with sirens and searchlights by now.
"Down," I tell her, keeping my voice low. "Fast but quiet. Don't stop until you reach ground level."
She nods and starts descending. The metal ladder creaks under her weight but holds. I give her a few rungs' head start, then follow. My ribs protest every movement. The burns on my shoulder pull tight where the bandages shift against my skin.
Halfway down, I smell it.
Petroleum. Accelerant. Sharp chemical tang that means someone's prepping for a fire.
"Faster," I say.
Isabella looks up at me, eyes wide in the darkness. Doesn't ask why. Just moves.
The words almost slip out—good girl—but I catch them. Too soon. Too revealing.
We're on an upper landing when the explosion hits.
Not the safe house. The building next door. The blast wave rocks the fire escape, metal groaning as the structure sways. Isabella grabs the railing, knuckles white. I wrap an arm around her waist, pull her hard against me, use my body to shield her from the debris that rains down from above. She fits against me perfectly, all that lean muscle yielding without hesitation.
The safe house windows blow out. Glass and flame. Heat washes over us even this far down.
"Keep moving," I say in her ear, my hand firm at her waist. "Now."
She moves. We hit the next landing, then another. Flames are spreading fast, jumping from the adjacent building to the safe house. This isn't containment. This is erasure.
