Nathaniel catches it immediately. He goes even stiller, like he’s turned to stone.
So do I.
Cassian keeps walking, putting distance between himself and the van. He doesn’t look back. He just… leaves.
For a second I’m terrified the driver will gun it and peel out anyway.
But then the van’s console dings again, and the driver’s door cracks open. The driver mutters to himself as he steps out.
I see his shoes first, then his legs. He slams the door harder than necessary.
Nathaniel leans toward me, barely moving his lips. “Now.”
We wait two more seconds, until he’s fully away from the driver’s side. Until his body blocks the van from the angle where any rear camera might catch movement in a reflection, a mirror, whatever paranoid setup he’s running.
Then Nathaniel moves first, controlled and smooth, sliding along the line of cars.
I follow.
We round the rear of the gray sedan, using it as cover, then cut forward along the opposite side of the van, always keeping car bodies between us and any lens that might still be watching.
The driver is crouching now, bent toward the tire, one hand braced on his knee, the other hovering near the rubber.
He says to absolutely no one, “Piece of shit…”
Nathaniel and I stop behind him.
Just like that.
We’re close enough that I can see the back of his neck. The small fold of skin at his collar. The cheap fabric of his jacket. And I know, I simply know, it’s about to be over. We won. The syringe in Nathaniel’s hand is ready, and he’s not the type of man to hesitate in a crucial moment and—
Police sirens sound out behind me.
Not close enough to be here, not yet, but close enough to pull every nerve in my body tight as wire. Same for the murderer in front of us. His head snaps up.
His eyes lock on the syringe in Nathaniel’s hand, already flying toward him.
The man moves like a snapped rubber band.
He pivots on the ball of his foot and slams his shoulder into Nathaniel’s chest before the needle can find skin. Nathaniel stumbles back half a step, boots scraping grit. His arm stays extended, still controlled, but the man’s palm is already wrapped around his wrist.
What the…?
I see it in sick, stupid detail. The tendons in the man’s hand stand out, white against his skin, his fingers clamping down like he’s done this before.
The syringe wobbles in Nathaniel’s grip.
They collide hard enough to make my stomach lurch.
Cassian, somewhere to the left, farther down the row, turns at the same time I do. I catch him through the gap between cars, his head snapping toward us, his whole posture shifting in a single blink from leaving to fighting.
He starts running.
“Skye!” he yells.
Nathaniel tries to wrench free. He twists his wrist, keeps his elbow tight, tries to keep the syringe from being ripped away.
The man growls something I can’t make out.
