I lean back, let the adrenaline fade.
"Then we see how fast you can learn to jump rooftops," I say.
She blinks. "I'm sorry, what?"
I close my eyes, feel the train's rhythm beneath us. "If Lazarev's tracking us this close, we're going to need to get creative with our exits."
"Rooftops."
"Among other things."
"You're insane."
Maybe. But insanity has kept me alive this long.
The train speeds through the night, carrying us away from Prague, away from Lazarev's fire.
My ribs are on fire. Every breath pulls at the burns on my shoulder. I need sleep, need time for my body to catch up with what I'm asking of it.
But the petroleum smell is still in my nose. Lazarev's pattern is burned into my head just like Yemen, just like every other time I've tried to put him behind me.
Isabella's breathing has evened out beside me. She's asleep or pretending to be.
Either way, she's vulnerable. Trusting me to keep watch.
My hand moves to her knee—just rests there. A reminder that I'm here. A claim that she's mine to protect.
I don't move it.
I’ll need to sleep eventually, but not now. Not while Lazarev's crew is still in Prague, still hunting.
For now, I stay awake. Keep my hand on her knee. Watch the darkness outside the window and the reflections of everyone in our car.
And try not to think about how easily she fits under my palm.
4
ISABELLA
Remy's hand rests on my knee.
Not moving, not claiming, just there. Warm through the fabric of my borrowed leggings. A reminder that he's here, that he's watching, that I'm under his protection whether I asked for it or not.
I should move away. Assert boundaries. Make it clear I'm not the kind of woman who needs a man's touch to feel safe.
Except I don't move, and the weight of his palm grounds me in a way logic can't explain.
The train speeds through Prague's outskirts, city lights giving way to darkness punctuated by scattered villages. We're in the middle car like Remy planned, away from exits where threats would enter. Regular seats, open layout, other passengers scattered throughout. A businessman a few rows ahead, headphones in, laptop glowing. An elderly couple across the aisle, already dozing. A young woman near the front, reading a paperback.
None of them know they're sitting near a woman carrying evidence of weapons trafficking. None of them realize the quiet American in the aisle seat is calculating kill zones and exit strategies.
Remy's attention never stops moving. He tracks every passenger who shifts position, every sound from the corridor, every reflection in the dark windows. His thumb moves slightly against my knee—probably unconscious, just maintaining contact while his focus stays sharp.
I watch Remy's reflection in the glass. Sharp angles, controlled stillness, that sharp-eyed focus that misses nothing. He hasn't slept since the extraction. His ribs are taped beneath that black henley, burns wrapped under the collar. Every breath costs him, but he doesn't slow down.
"You should rest," I say quietly.
"Not yet."
