One more landing to go. I catch Isabella's arm. "Stop. Let me go first."
She doesn't argue, just flattens herself against the railing to let me pass. I take the lead, descending quickly to ground level. Drop the last few feet, scan the alley, then turn back.
"Clear. Come on."
Isabella climbs down to the edge and jumps. She trusts me to catch her—doesn't brace or hesitate, just lets herself fall. I absorb her weight easily, set her on her feet but keep one hand at the small of her back. Scan the alley.
Clear. For now.
"This way." I grab her hand, lace our fingers together. Not a request. Her hand fits in mine perfectly, and she doesn't pull away. Doesn't even hesitate.
We need distance and we need it fast. Within minutes, emergency services will flood this area, and I don't want to be anywhere near here when they start asking questions.
We hit the street running. I keep us moving through the crowd that's already gathering to watch the fire. People with phones out, filming. Perfect. We're just two more gawkers caught up in the chaos.
Multiple blocks pass, my boots hitting pavement in steady rhythm, Isabella's lighter footfalls matching my pace. I take us through side streets, keeping to the shadows where streetlights don't reach. She keeps pace without complaint, her hand warm in mine, her messenger bag bouncing against her hip. The oversized sweater and leggings aren't ideal for running, but the slip-on sneakers were a smart choice. Cerberus safe houses are stocked for quick escapes.
When I'm satisfied we've got enough distance, I pull her into a doorway. Old office building, locked for the night. I position her against the wall, cage her in with my body while I assess our surroundings. She smells like smoke and adrenaline underneath, something floral. Her pulse is visible at her throat, fast but steady.
Isabella is breathing hard but not panicking, the messenger bag still clutched against her side. She's watching me, waiting for direction. Panic makes people sloppy, and I need her sharp.
"What just happened?" she asks.
"Someone tried to kill us."
"I gathered that much." There's an edge to her voice. Anger, not fear. "Who?"
"Working on it." I pull out my phone, still close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. Nothing from Fitz yet, but he'll be tracking the news feeds. An explosion in central Prague isn't exactly subtle.
I run through the variables. We found a tracker in Isabella's bag that would have led them to the safe house, but that doesn't explain the timing. We destroyed it, but they were already inposition. Which means they knew where we'd be before the tracker led them there.
They had eyes on the warehouse and knew what it was.
Either option is bad.
"The explosion." Isabella's still catching her breath, her chest rising and falling. "The building next door, not the safe house. Why?"
I look at her, really look at her. Even disheveled and covered in soot, she's sharp. A chemist, analytical. Seeing patterns where most people just see chaos.
"Lazarev's signature," I say. "He doesn't go for the direct hit. Wants you to know it's coming. Wants you to run."
"And then?"
"Then he takes you down while you're moving. Easier target, less cover." The street is still clear. "He miscalculated tonight. We moved faster than he expected."
"This Lazarev." She crosses her arms, a subtle barrier between us. I let her have it. "You said he's after you, not me. So why?—"
"Because you're with me. That makes you leverage." I meet her eyes, hold them. "And Lazarev doesn't do things halfway. If he can't get to me directly, he'll burn everything around me until I'm exposed."
"Charming."
"Effective."
She studies me for a long moment. "You've dealt with him before."
Not a question. A statement. I could deflect, but she's earned at least part of the truth.
"We crossed paths in Afghanistan," I say. "Both contractors, different companies. But the real problem started in Yemen. Joint operation went sideways. People died. He blamed me."
