My shoulder's on fire. Every breath sends pain lancing through my ribs. The scarf around my neck is damp with sweat and probably blood. I can feel the beginning of burns on my exposed skin—nothing serious, but enough to know I got too close.
I take another turn, this one onto a main boulevard. Headlights, traffic, witnesses. Harder to make a move in public. The Iron Choir operates in shadows, not spotlights.
"Thank you," she says finally. "For going back."
"Don't thank me yet." My hands tighten on the wheel. "Fire wasn't the worst thing in that building."
She turns to look at me. "What do you mean?"
"The explosives I didn't set?" Meeting her gaze briefly before returning attention to the road. "Military-grade charges with a signature I recognize. Structural collapse pattern, overlapping detonation sequence. Only a few people work like that."
"Who?"
"If I'm right?" Truth tastes bitter. "Grigor Lazarev. Russian demolitions expert - we have history from a mission in Yemen that went wrong. He blames me, wants me dead, and doesn't care who gets caught in the crossfire. The Iron Choir wants you for what you know. Lazarev wants me, and you're collateral damage."
Her face pales in the dashboard lights. "You're saying we have two problems now."
"We always had two problems,Chère." The endearment slips out, habit from home. "Now we're caught between two threats, and they both know we're in Prague."
I accelerate through another turn. In the mirror, the warehouse fire lights up the night sky, orange and angry against the darkness.
Beside me, Isabella stays silent. No panic. No hysteria. No flood of questions. Just controlled breathing and that focused stare out the window.
I'm already calculating Lazarev's next move. Where he'll rig his next trap. What routes he'll anticipate. He knows how I think, how I operate.
My ribs scream with every breath. The burns on my shoulder are starting to sting. And somewhere behind us, two different enemies are hunting the same target.
Going to be a long night.
2
ISABELLA
Remy drives like he's being chased by the devil himself. Which, technically, we are—maybe not the actual devil, but someone who works in close concert with him. Right now, a supernatural deity is easier to accept than my former mentor hunting me through Prague's streets.
I clutch my messenger bag against my chest and watch Prague blur past the window. Cobblestone streets. Gothic spires. A city I chose for its anonymity, now burning behind us in the rearview mirror. Smoke rises from the warehouse district, thick and black against the night. Emergency vehicles will be there soon, if they're not already. Questions will be asked. Bodies will be counted.
My stomach turns.
He takes another corner without slowing, tires protesting against wet pavement. His jaw is set, eyes constantly moving between the road and mirrors. Every movement precise despite the way he's favoring his left side.
He's hurt worse than he's showing.
When he ran toward me from the collapsing building, his stride hitched. He protected his ribs when he yanked the messenger bag's strap over his head. Blood on his neck wherethe scarf didn't quite cover. Burns, maybe, from the heat and debris.
He dove through a window and walked away.
He ran away, actually. Then drove.
My hands should be shaking. Most people's would be. I've just watched a man—this man—infiltrate a burning chemical plant, detonate enough explosives to level the building, retrieve my research data, and escape a structural collapse that should have killed him.
Instead, I'm watching him work. Using one-way streets and foot traffic. Matching the speed limit on main roads, then accelerating hard through side streets. Every choice deliberate.
You could watch the world burn and take notes on combustion patterns.My thesis advisor said that once, shaking his head.
He wasn't wrong.
"You're bleeding," I say.
