There. Left boot, inside edge. Something small and hard under the material.
I pull out my knife, carefully pry the rubber away. A tracker, no bigger than a watch battery. Military-grade, the kind that runs for months on a single charge.
Lazarev didn't just know I was in Prague. He's known everywhere I've been for God knows how long.
I crush the tracker under my heel, flush the pieces, and head back out.
Isabella looks up when I return. "Problem?"
"He was tracking me." I sit down, keep my voice even. "A boot tracker. Military-grade. He's known everywhere I've been for months."
She's quiet, working through it. "So the tracker in my bag led them to the safe house?—"
"And this one led Lazarev." I sit down, keep my voice even. "Two different threats. Two different trackers. The Iron Choir hunting you, Lazarev hunting me. We destroyed yours, but mine's still been active."
"How long?"
"No way of knowing—days? Weeks? Months? No way to know."
"That's..." She stops, shakes her head. "That's dedication."
"That's obsession." Over an hour until the package drop. "Lazarev doesn't let things go. Once you're on his list, you stay there."
"And I'm on his list now because I'm with you."
"Unfortunately."
A long silence. Then: "You could leave me somewhere safe. Let Cerberus handle my situation while you deal with yours."
"No."
"That wasn't a question. I'm saying you have the option?—"
"And I'm saying no." I look at her directly, let her see exactly how serious I am. "You're my assignment. I don't leave assignments unfinished."
"Even if it makes you a bigger target?"
"Especially then." I lean in slightly, close enough that she has to hold my gaze or look away. She doesn't look away. "You're mine to protect. That doesn't change because things get complicated."
Something shifts in her expression. Her breath catches—just slightly, but I notice. Recognition, maybe. Or awareness of exactly what I just claimed.
She holds my gaze, searching for something. I don't know what she finds, but she nods slowly.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"I trust you." She says it simply, like it's a fact. "You went back into a burning building for my research. You got me out of that safe house before the explosion hit. You've had multiple chances to dump me somewhere and you haven't. So okay. I trust you."
Something tightens in my throat. Not comfortable. Not entirely unwelcome either.
"Don't make it a habit," I say.
"What, trusting you?"
"Trusting anyone."
She almost smiles. "Noted."
