Gavin opens the SUV door for me like I’m precious cargo, and I hate how much I like it.
I climb in and buckle myself into the back seat. My hands are cold even inside my gloves.
Gavin leans in close, his face inches from mine. “You keep your radio on. If anything feels off—anything—you speak up.”
My voice is small. “What if I get scared?”
His eyes darken. “Then you breathe, and you remember this: nobody gets you without going through me.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
He points at the lock. “Lock it.”
I do. I press the button, and the locks click down.
He watches me do it like it’s a test.
Then he nods once and shuts the door.
The engine hums. And we move.
The drive is quiet. Not because it’s peaceful. Because everyone is in that focused silence operators get into when their brains are already inside the mission.
The SUVs cut through the snowy roads in a tight line, headlights glaring against the gray. I sit in the back seat and stare out the window, my breath fogging the glass, trying not to think about what could happen.
Trying not to think about Aidan’s face.
Trying not to think about Sophie’s last text to me.
The one I never replied to because I was busy and thought I had time.
I hate myself for that.
We pull into a staging area near an industrial stretch outside Timber Creek—flat land, warehouse shapes looming in the distance like dark teeth. Floodlights glare harshly against snow. There are FBI vehicles here—unmarked SUVs, a couple of black vans, men and women in tactical gear with FBI patches moving with clipped efficiency.
This is real.
Gavin comes to my door and opens it just enough to speak to me.
“You stay here,” he says again.
I nod, heart hammering. “I will.”
He leans in, his hand bracing on the door frame. His eyes search mine like he’s trying to memorize my face. Like he’s afraid this is the last time.
Don’t think that.
Don’t even let that thought exist.
“Lock it,” he says.
“I know.”
“Do it anyway.”
I press the lock again. Click.
He watches. Satisfied.
