Lena returns. “Plates are clean.”
Of course they are.
Clean means nothing.
I take another turn—still normal, still calm—onto a road that parallels the river, then cut inland again, letting the city reshape around us.
If the hatchback follows through three more turns, it’s a tail.
If it drops off, we’re lucky.
Luck is a myth. But we take what we can get.
Lark stares out at the passing buildings, her voice barely above the engine. “What did that man want?”
“To take you.”
Her shoulders stiffen. “I know that. I mean—why? What do they want?”
I hear the tremor she’s fighting. Not fear exactly. Anger. Confusion. The urge to control something when control has been ripped away.
I respect it.
But I won’t feed her comfort I can’t guarantee.
“Information,” I say. “Or access.”
She frowns. “I don’t have anything.”
I exhale through my nose. “You do. You just don’t know which piece matters yet.”
Her gaze flicks to me. Sharp. Intelligent. A flicker of something like recognition.
Then she looks away fast.
“Why were you watching me?” she asks. “Don’t say ‘because you were flagged.’ That’s not an answer.”
I take another turn—smooth, legal—into a narrower street where the lamps are farther apart.
“We weren’t watching you,” I say. “We were watching the pattern you’re attached to.”
Her fingers tighten on her bag strap. “I’m attached to a pattern?”
I don’t answer right away.
Because there are truths that land like bullets.
And she’s already bleeding.
Ronan’s voice breaks in again. “Aaron.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re about to cross into the old quarter. Too many angles.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t linger. Get her to the safe point.”
