She spins, and I catch my first real look at her face in the firelight. Elegant features. Green eyes wide with terror but sharp with intelligence. Beautiful enough to make men stupid. Lab coat singed at the hem, hair escaping from what was probably a professional bun this morning.
I make a lot of stupid decisions. At least this one's calculated.
"Who are you?" she demands, voice steady despite the chaos. Controlled. That takes spine when the world's burning around you.
"Your ride." I reach the catwalk level and extend my hand. "Remy Pascal. Cerberus. We need to go. Now."
She hesitates. Behind us, the mercs are regrouping, voices shouting in German and English through the smoke—mix of accents, international crew. Professional soldiers recovering from surprise faster than I'd like. Below, my charges have created a wall of flame between us and them—but fire's temporary. Chemistry's unforgiving.
"You're American military," she says, reading me in seconds. The accent, the bearing, the controlled violence I carry like a second skin. "Special operations."
"Used to be." I keep my hand extended. "Right now I'm the man between you and a bullet. Your choice,Chère."
Another explosion—this one not mine. A different blast pattern, wrong timing, reckless placement that sends a fireball rolling up the east wall instead of creating controlled chaos. The warehouse shudders. Somewhere above us, metal screeches as a support beam buckles.
Her eyes narrow. "That wasn't you."
"Non." My gut goes cold. "That's someone else with professional-level training."
And if demolitions expertise like mine is in play, that narrows the field to maybe a handful of people on the continent. Most of them I know. One of them with serious motivation to be here.
Dr. Durand takes my hand.
Her grip is firm, steady. The contact hits me somewhere behind my ribs, but there's no time to process it.
I pull her close as another charge detonates below—sloppy work, reckless—and press her against the catwalk railing. Her body fits against mine, all curves and tension. She smells like smoke and something floral underneath. I need to focus.
"Stay low," I order. "Follow my lead. Don't argue. Clear?"
"Crystal." But there's fire in her eyes that says this woman doesn't take orders easily.
That's good. Broken spirits don't survive what's coming.
We move through smoke and chaos, her hand locked in mine. The catwalk sways beneath us, damaged from the explosions. I test each step before putting full weight down, feeling for structural integrity. Isabella matches my pace without complaint, trusting my assessment even as the metal groans beneath our feet.
Gunfire erupts below. Bullets spark off metal railings, forcing us to duck. I return fire with my sidearm—controlled bursts, not trying to kill, just buying time and distance. Shell casings ping off the grating.
Somewhere in the chemical haze and adrenaline, I make a tactical error: I look at her face again. At the determination cutting through her fear. At the way she's cataloging the explosion patterns while we run—scientific mind working even in crisis. She's not panicking. She's analyzing.
She's cargo. Cargo to protect. Nothing more.
The lie sits heavy in my chest.
We hit the east exit as the warehouse groans behind us, metal shrieking as support beams fail. My truck is waiting exactly where I left it, engine running—never turn off a getaway vehicle. The industrial parking lot is empty except for scattered debris and burning chemical drums that cast everything in hellish orange light.
I pull her toward it, but she digs her heels in at the passenger door.
"The data," she says. "I have evidence. In my bag. I left it?—"
"Forget it." I open the door, ready to physically place her inside if necessary. Every second we stand here is a second closer to death.
"No." She pulls back, stronger than she looks. "That data proves what they're building. Who's funding it. Without it, this is pointless."
"Without you alive, the data's worthless." My voice drops to command register, the tone that made SEALs fall in line. "Get in the truck."
She meets my eyes, and recognition flashes across her face. She sees what I am—what I do—and instead of fear, I see calculation. This woman is doing the same math I am. Running the risk assessment. Weighing outcomes.
"They'll kill more people," she says quietly. "The delivery system I designed can be weaponized for chemical or biological agents. Aerosolized. Dispersed over populations. The data proves they're planning to sell it to the highest bidder."
