“Enough,” I cut in, not because I don’t care, but because she can’t carry the number right now.
I take the next turn into the lane. It’s narrow, unremarkable, the kind of place you’d never notice unless you needed to vanish.
Halfway down, a van is parked wrong—too close to the curb, angled slightly, as if ready to pull out.
My hands tighten.
“Ronan,” I say, “we’ve got a block.”
Ronan doesn’t hesitate. “Abort safe point. Go to fallback.”
Lena’s voice is already there. “Fallback coordinates sent.”
My phone vibrates once in my pocket—silent—route update.
I don’t look at it. I don’t need to. My mind is already rerouting.
But the van moves.
Headlights flare.
It pulls out fast, swinging into our lane.
Not to hit us.
To trap us.
Lark sucks in a breath that sharpens into panic and she fights it down like she’s ashamed of it.
She shouldn’t be.
This is designed to break people.
I grip the wheel and do the only thing that keeps her alive:
I become the worst version of myself.
I slam the accelerator.
Lark’s head snaps back against the seat. “Aaron!”
The van is coming.
I’m not going to stop.
At the last second, I cut right—up onto the curb—tires jolting over stone, the car bouncing once as we blast past the van’s front bumper with inches to spare.
Metal squeals.
Lark cries out.
I don’t look at her. I can’t afford it.
In the mirror, the hatchback swerves to follow. The van corrects and accelerates behind it.
Now we’re in it.
Now the city knows.
