We both know it.
"This is bigger than you know." His voice is thick, damaged. "Walk away. Forget the girl. This is the only time someone at my level makes this offer."
He means it as a courtesy. In his world, it probably is.
"Not happening."
He lunges—a tight, economical thrust aimed at my center, not a movie stab but a real one. I rotate offline, both hands catching his wrist, and torque hard against the joint in the wrong direction. The grinding of bones is audible in the quiet apartment.
The knife drops.
My knee comes up into his face with everything I have left.
He goes down hard and stays there.
The apartment settles into silence broken only by my breathing and the faint tick of Wren's refrigerator down the hall.
I want to put a bullet in him. The clean solution. The professional solution. But Wren is standing six feet away withher hand over her mouth, and a body in her apartment is a complication that will cost us hours we don't have and attention we can't afford.
I move fast. Pockets first—no ID, which is what I expected from someone at this level. But tucked inside the tactical vest, on a short chain against his chest, is a pendant. Small. Black. A double helix, twisted and gleaming, worn like an identifier or a badge of belonging.
A message or a mistake. I need Frost to tell me which.
"Oh, God." Wren's voice is behind me, barely above a whisper. "Is he?—"
"Alive." I'm already on my feet, zip ties from my jacket pocket—another paranoid habit that's paying dividends tonight.
I secure his wrists behind him, then his ankles. He'll work free eventually, but it buys time. His suppressed pistol comes off the floor and goes into my waistband alongside the Glock. His knife goes into my boot.
Three weapons leaving this apartment. I file the count.
I close the distance to Wren and grip her shoulders—firm, grounding, pulling her eyes to mine and off the man on her floor. "Pack a bag. Essentials only. Five minutes, maybe less, before whoever's in that car outside starts wondering why he hasn't checked in."
"There's someone outside?" Her voice pitches higher. "How many?—"
"At least one more. Could be a full team. I don't know yet and I don't want to be here when I find out." I hold her gaze until I see her focus sharpen. "Bag. Now. Move."
She moves.
Drawers. Closet. The efficient sounds of someone packing fast under pressure. I drag the unconscious operative out of the main hallway and check the front windows—the Charger is stillthere, still idling, the driver's silhouette motionless behind the tint. Waiting. Patient.
Clock's running.
Wren emerges in under three minutes—backpack, laptop bag slung across her chest, jeans and a sweater, phone white-knuckled in her right hand.
"Leave the phone."
"I need?—"
"It's a tracking beacon. Leave it."
She sets it on the kitchen counter like it burned her. Her eyes are dry. Her jaw is set. Scared, yes—but functioning. Processing. I file that away, too.
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere safe." I take her hand. It's trembling, and she's not hiding it. "Trust me?"
It's an enormous ask. She's known me less than twelve hours. There's an unconscious man zip-tied on her hallway floor, a surveillance vehicle parked outside, and I'm asking her to walk out into the dark with a stranger carrying three weapons and another man's blood drying on his arm.
