He got one arm under her shoulders, the other beneath her knees, and drew her out of the car and against his chest. Her right arm stayed cradled against her own ribs. Her head dropped against his collarbone, heavy and still.
The lockbox code worked. The front door opened into a small living room. A hallway led to a single bedroom. He carried her through and eased her onto the mattress, lowering her by inchesand stopping when she flinched to wait, then lower again. The last few inches cost her a sound he wished he hadn’t caused: tight, bitten-off, trapped behind her teeth.
He pulled the blanket over her and stepped back.
Her eyes opened. Closed. Opened again, her gaze unfocused, searching for something to anchor to. Then the pain won, and she went still.
Isaac stood over the bed. He had no idea what was wrong with her. Injury? Illness? Something structural? He didn’t have the vocabulary for what he’d witnessed tonight. Her wrist wouldn’t take weight. Her knee had buckled every time she’d tried to stand. He’d felt things shifting in her shoulders and hips when he’d held her.
Whatever was happening wasn’t a single injury. It was systemic. And he was standing in a rented bedroom with no medical supplies, no training for whatever this was, and no idea how to help.
A phone buzzed.
The sound came from her jacket. He found it. The screen showed an incoming call from a contact listed as one letter:C.
He answered.
“Fallon?” A woman’s voice. Quick, sharp, already running hot. “You missed your check-in. Are you out? Tell me you’re out.”
“This isn’t Fallon.”
The line went silent. He could feel the calculation happening on the other end—who he was, how he had this phone, what it meant that Fallon wasn’t the one holding it.
“Who is this?” Cold now. One sentence from hanging up.
“Isaac Baxter. Zodiac Tactical.” He talked fast because he had maybe three seconds before she disconnected. “Fallon is hurt. Badly. She’s in a lot of pain. Her wrist is useless, her knee won’thold, and she keeps losing consciousness. She refused a hospital. I need you not to hang up.”
The silence held. He could hear her breathing on the other end—rapid, controlled, the tight rhythm of someone whose worst-case scenario had just introduced itself.
“Where is she?” The coldness had cracked. Something raw bled through underneath.
“I’m with her in a safehouse in Chattanooga.”
“Which joints? Be specific.”
“Right wrist is the worst. Left knee won’t bear weight. Her shoulders and hips were doing some sort of weird shifting when I carried her. It’s not one thing. It’s everything.”
A sharp inhale. “I need to see her. Switch to video.”
He tapped the icon. The screen filled with a woman’s face—mid-twenties, dark-framed glasses, red hair pulled back. She was close to the camera, her jaw set, her eyes already moving before the image fully resolved.
Isaac turned the phone toward the bed.
The woman’s composure fractured. Her mouth opened, her eyes widened, and something crossed her face that had nothing to do with professional concern. It was grief and fear and the particular anguish of watching someone you loved pay a price you couldn’t stop them from paying. She sealed it up fast, but he’d seen it.
“Fallon.” Firm, clear. “Fallon, can you hear me? Talk to me. I need you to open your eyes and talk to me.”
Fallon’s eyes opened. She blinked twice, and her gaze found the screen.
“Cassandra.” A whisper scraped thin.
“I’m here. Can you tell me what hurts most?”
“Everywhere.” A breath. “Wrist. Knee. Everything locked up on the wall.”
“I know, honey. Isaac’s got you. You need to let him take care of you. I’m going to tell him what to do.”
Fallon’s eyes drifted shut. Her hand opened against the sheet and went still.
