A pause. “Handle how?”
“Standard protocol,” Briar says. “No traces, no witnesses. I’ll keep the asset in containment. There’s no need for further intervention.”
Another long silence. The Director’s exhale is almost a sigh, like the world’s most patient teacher explaining simple math to an idiot child. “You are not authorized for freelance. We need confirmation of disposal by dawn. If you fail, the matter escalates to your own asset status. Are you clear?”
Briar doesn’t flinch. “Understood.”
“Excellent.” The line clicks dead.
It’s only then that I realize my hands are clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms. I’m shaking, shoulders tight, and the urge to scream is loud in my chest.
He is giving up everything.
I stare at the window, see nothing but my own reflection, pale and sweating, caught between streetlights as we cut through the rising dusk.
“Was that… always the plan?” My voice is so thin I barely recognize it.
Briar flicks his eyes to me for half a second, then back to the highway. “Doesn’t matter what the plan was. Only what it is now.”
I wait, hoping for more, but he goes silent.
I want to vomit, or maybe punch him, or maybe just climb into the back seat and curl up until this whole thing is over. But the world has narrowed down to the sound of my breathing and the knowledge that if I fall asleep, it might be the last time.
After a long time, Briar says, “You’re safer with me than anywhere else. That hasn’t changed.”
I want to tell him he’s lying, but he’s not. I believe him more than I want to.
The car hums over the asphalt, engine a steady lullaby. My mind races, unable to slow the steady stream of panic, lust, thrill, and anxiety.
Briar doesn’t speak again, but the tension in him has changed. Before, it was the usual predator energy, the readiness to snap. Now it’s something else—like he’s on a wire, a single wrong move away from losing everything.
I realize I’m not the only one at risk. If he fucks up, if he fails, the machine that made him will eat him too.
And he already made his decision. Hechooses me.
I should be terrified, but mostly I just feel a weird, sharp clarity, like ice in my veins.
We take back roads the rest of the day. The sun is barely hanging on when we pull off a county highway and into a gravel drive choked with weeds and dead leaves. The trees crowd close around the house, thick enough to block line of sight from the road, but not so thick that I don’t notice every potential hiding place between here and the tree line.
Briar kills the headlights and we coast the last hundred feet, coming to a stop at a single-story cabin that looks like it hasn’t been lived in for a decade. The place is ugly, patched togetherfrom concrete and wood, with tarps nailed over the windows and a stack of rotting firewood by the door.
I stare at it, then at Briar. “This?”
He glances at me, blue eyes gone almost colorless in the cold light. “We’re here for supplies. We won’t be here long.”
He leaves the engine running and gets out, scans the woods, then gestures for me to follow. My legs are numb, not just from the drive, but from the shock that still hasn’t worked its way out of my system.
We’re up the steps in seconds. He unlocks the door with a key from under the mat—a cliche that actually works—and shoves me inside. The air smells like mildew and dust, but it’s warmer than I expect.
He moves fast, making a circuit of the windows, checking locks, then disappearing down a hallway that branches off the main room. I hear him open and close three doors, then a thump like something heavy dropping onto a floor.
I linger near the door, muscles braced for something—gunfire, an alarm, maybe just the sense that this is all about to go sideways.
He comes back with a backpack that has guns sticking out of it and a handgun, both of which he sets on the kitchen counter. “You hungry?” he says, but it’s a test, not a question.
I shake my head.
He nods, as if that’s the right answer. “I’m gonna make something to eat and then we’re back on the road.”
