"Roger. Keep me updated on their positions."
"Always do. Mitzy out."
I slow my pace slightly, letting Evie close the gap between us. Her face is flushed from exertion, a scratch on her cheek from a branch she didn't dodge fast enough, but her eyes are clear. Focused. She's tracking the terrain the way someone who spends time outdoors tracks terrain—reading the slope, anticipating obstacles, adjusting her stride before she needs to.
Those boots aren't a fashion statement. They're worn in the right places, scuffed in the patterns that come from actual use. The jeans move with her instead of against her. And she's been dressed and ready since day three, waiting for a threat she could feel but not name.
This woman has been underestimated her entire life. I'd bet my coffee debt on it.
"Doing okay back there?"
She shoots me a look—somewhere between exhausted and annoyed. "Define 'okay.'"
"Upright. Moving. Not actively being shot at."
"Then I'm spectacular."
The dry delivery surprises a laugh out of me. "That's the spirit. Keep up with me, sweetheart, and I'll have you somewhere safe before lunch."
"Lunch." She ducks under the same branch I did, graceful despite her fatigue. "Is that a promise or a sales pitch?"
"Little of both. I'm very good at my job."
"Modest, too."
"Modesty is for people who can't back it up." I flash her the grin—the one that works on everyone, the one that says trust me, I've got this, everything's going to be fine. It's armor, mostly, but it's also real. The grin is how I function. How I keep breathing when the world is full of people trying to stop me.
Evie doesn't look away. Most people do—they take the charm at face value, let themselves be reassured, don't look too close at what's underneath. But she holds my gaze like she's searching for something. Like she's trying to figure out which parts of me are performance and which parts are real.
It's unsettling.
It's also, if I'm being honest, a little bit thrilling.
"Your earpiece," she says. "The person on the other end. They're tracking the men behind us?"
"Mitzy. Best tech operator in the business. She's got eyes on their positions, their movements, probably their dental records if she felt like digging."
"And she works for... Guardian HRS? Is that a real organization?"
"Real as it gets. Private hostage rescue. We handle the cases the government can't or won't touch."
"Cases like mine."
"Cases exactly like yours." I scan the treeline, checking for movement. "FBI's compromised, local law is unreliable, and the cartel's got enough money to buy anyone who isn't already bought. You needed someone outside the system."
"So you're what—vigilantes?"
"We prefer 'aggressive problem-solvers.'" Another grin. "Better dental plan than vigilantes."
She almost smiles. Almost. I count it as a win.
We keep moving. The terrain slopes steadily upward. The forest is dense here—pine and fir pressing close, undergrowth thick enough to slow our pace. Good for cover. Bad for speed. I push us as fast as I dare, balancing the need for distance against the reality that Evie is a civilian and civilians have limits.
Except she doesn't seem to have limits. Not the ones I expected.
She matches my pace without complaint, breathing hard but controlled. Her footwork is better than it has any right to be—she's picking her way through roots and rocks like she's done this before, like rough terrain is something her body knows how to navigate.
I watch the way she moves — efficient, sure-footed, her body reading terrain the way mine reads tactical ground. There's something about it that doesn't fit the kindergarten teacher frame.
