But I can't count on it. No body means no confirmation. And operators like Lazarev don't die easily.
The op is complete. The compounds are destroyed. The Iron Choir loses millions in weaponized research, and Lazarev loses his purchase.
This isn't over. It's just beginning.
Van der Berg's driver takes us through Rotterdam at speeds that blur the streets. Behind us, emergency sirens wail. Fire trucks, police, port security, all converging on a facility that's burning so hot the steel support beams are melting.
Isabella sits beside me, breathing hard, eyes wide but steady. No panic, no breakdown, just the adrenaline crash from running through a firefight and coming out alive.
"You did good," I tell her. "Identified all three compounds under pressure. Followed orders. Kept moving when rounds were flying."
"People died back there."
"Yes. Guards who chose to work for the Iron Choir, guards who would have killed you without hesitation if we'd failed." Idon't soften it, don't pretend violence has a gentle face. "They knew the risks. They lost."
"Lazarev was buying the compounds. He was going to weaponize my delivery system."
"Yes." I catch her hand, grip tight. "He's been hunting me for years because I told the truth about Yemen. Now, he knows I destroyed millions in product he was purchasing. He won't stop until one of us is dead."
Isabella's hand finds mine. Grips back just as hard. "Then we make sure it's him."
The certainty in her voice does something to my throat. This woman who was a fugitive scientist only a short time ago is now committed to standing with me against a vendetta that could kill us both. No hesitation, no fear about what that commitment means.
Mine. The thought surfaces with possessive satisfaction that's equal parts dark and absolute.
She chose this. Chose me. Chose to stand in the fire rather than run from it.
And I'll burn the world down before I let Lazarev touch her.
Van der Berg's vehicle pulls into a different safe house. Industrial district, abandoned warehouse, the kind of place that won't ask questions about armed men and explosives residue.
"You're safe here for a day," Van der Berg says. "After that, my team pulls out. With or without you."
I don't thank him. Mercenaries don't want gratitude. They want payment and clean exits.
Luc's already coordinating with his European contacts. Getting us new documentation, new routes out of Rotterdam, new safe houses that aren't compromised. The network he's built over years of running black ops pays dividends now.
But all I can think about is Lazarev's face when he saw me. The cold satisfaction in his eyes, the promise of violence to come,the absolute certainty that he'd rather die than let this vendetta go unfinished.
He was buying weapons-grade compounds from the Iron Choir. And now that we've destroyed his purchase and exposed his involvement, he's going to use every resource he has to hunt us across Europe until he gets what he wants.
Until one of us is dead and the other is left carrying that weight.
Isabella leans against me, exhausted but alive. We destroyed the compounds, completed the mission, saved thousands of lives from weapons that would have killed indiscriminately.
But Lazarev's still breathing, which means I have one more job to finish.
15
ISABELLA
Sleep doesn't come.
Every time I close my eyes, gunfire echoes through my skull. Muzzle flashes strobe across my vision like lightning trapped behind my eyelids. The chemical stench of gunpowder mixed with blood coats the back of my throat until I can taste it, thick and metallic. Remy's hand on my tactical vest, dragging me through corridors while men screamed and died around us—that pressure still ghosts across my ribs like a brand.
Van der Berg's contractors disappeared the moment their obligation ended—professionals fulfilling a contract, nothing more. Luc moved us within the hour, refusing to trust any location Van der Berg's people knew about. An apartment on an upper floor in a residential neighborhood. The kind of place where neighbors mind their business and landlords accept cash without asking questions. Clean. Quiet.
Remy hasn't slept. He's stationed by the window, weapon across his lap, watching the street below with the absolute stillness of a man who's done this countless times in worse places than Rotterdam. Every few minutes his gaze sweeps the rooflines, checking sight lines and approach vectors with the same mechanical precision he uses to rig explosives. Lucoccupies the second bedroom, equally alert, equally armed. Just the three of us now. Waiting for dawn or violence, whichever arrives first.
