She takes it. Her fingers lace through mine like they've done it a thousand times. Like they belong there.
We're both in trouble.
Her grip is stronger than I expected—callused in places that catch my attention. The inside of her fingers, the heel of her palm. Not a teacher's hands.
I file it away. I'll come back to that.
I start to pull her up.
But I pull too hard, or she rises too fast, and suddenly she's standing inches from me, our hands still clasped, her body close enough that I can feel the heat of her through the cold morning air.
Neither of us moves.
Her breath catches. Her lips part. Her eyes drop to my mouth and then snap back up, like she's been caught doing something she shouldn't.
I should step back. I should make a joke, break the tension, be charming, be safe. That's what I do. That's who I am—the guy who deflects, who charms, who never lets anyone close enough to leave a mark.
But she's looking at me like she sees past all of it. Like she's seeing something underneath the jokes, the grin, and the easy confidence. The terrifying thing is, I want her to look. I want her to see.
"You okay?" My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
"I don't know." Her voice is barely a whisper. Her hand is still in mine. Neither of us has let go. "Are we going to die?"
"Not if I can help it."
"That's not a no."
"It's the best I've got." My thumb traces a circle on the back of her hand. Unconscious. Automatic. Like my body is making promises my brain hasn't approved. "But for what it's worth, I don't plan on dying today. Too much to live for."
"Like what?"
The question catches me off guard.
Most people don't ask follow-up questions when you hand them a flippant line. Most people take the deflection at face value and move on.
Not her.
"I owe my tech operator fancy coffee for a week," I say. "Can't die before I pay that off. She'd haunt me."
Evie laughs. It's a small sound, barely there, but it's real—surprised out of her like my laugh was surprised out of me earlier. Her whole face changes when she laughs. Softens. Opens.
Beautiful, I think, and then immediately: Shut up, Jones.
I let go of her hand. Step back. Reload my weapon with movements that are automatic, mechanical, anything to put distance between us.
"We need to move. More will be coming."
She nods. The moment breaks. The tension doesn't disappear, exactly, but it banks—embers instead of flame, waiting for fuel.
"Mitzy, status on pursuit."
"Main group is regrouping at the cabin. Looks like they found Derek and Travis. Derek's being loaded into a vehicle—medical transport, probably. They're not happy."
"Derek lived?"
"For now. Travis too. Cartel's pulling back their ground teams while they figure out what happened. You bought yourself a window—maybe thirty minutes before they reorganize and come at you with real numbers."
Thirty minutes. Better than twenty.
