Alessandra didn’t feel like parting with the briefcase; she tightened her grip on it and took a half-step back.“And then what? Will our lives return to normal? West might be dead, but his masters aren’t. The consortium still exists. They’ll want to bury this—bury us too, if they have to.”“You don’t have a choice, Mrs. Sterling,” Reyes said, her voice hardening.The other agents subtly shifted into ready stances.Reid, leaning heavily against Alessandra, struggled to sit up. His gaze slid past Reyes, toward the yawning hangar door.Outside in the waning rain, twilight shone faintly, like a gray smear across the horizon. Near the hangar’s service entrance sat the fuel truck Alessandra had mentioned earlier—its cab deserted, silent.Reid glanced back at Reyes, then at the briefcase, and West’s last words echoed in his mind: The ghost remains. And it knows your name.Handing over the briefcase meant trusting a system that had already failed him spectacularly—a system the consortium had
West and Reid locked into a brutal tug-of-war, wrestled for the briefcase, the object that embodied their war. West, stronger, began to wrench it free. Reid, driven by pure desperation, clung on, fingers sliding on rain-slick leather..“Let go, fool!” West snarled, driving a knee into Reid’s belly. Reid cried out, and his grip faltered. West ripped the case free and raised it like a hammer, aiming to smash it down on Reid’s skull.A pistol report cracked. West flinched as a small hole opened in his suit below the sternum. His face registered shock, then slow understanding. The case slipped from his numb fingers and hit the floor with a heavy thud. He took a stumbling step back, groping the wound as blood slicked his hand.Reid looked past West. Near the hangar door, half-hidden by a forklift, Agent Reyes stood in a soaked FBI windbreaker. Reid had glimpsed her once during CipherCore’s collapse; now her face was hard with determination and her service pistol steady in a two-handed grip
Reid had no time to think. He acted. Years of bottled-up rage, the desperate need to protect Alessandra and their unborn child, and the ghost of Zain’s terrified face—all of it exploded into one ruthless will to survive.He lunged forward, not back, into the arc of the pistol. His left hand slapped upward, knocking West’s gun arm aside just as the shot cracked and the bullet tore through the air where Reid’s head had been. His right hand, clenched into a fist and powered by every ounce of fury and fear, drove up like a piston and slammed into West’s jaw with a sickening crack.West’s head snapped back and the pistol flew from his grasp, clattering across the rain-slicked hangar floor. Surprise—raw and uncharacteristic—flickered over his eyes, then vanished beneath a wave of primal fury. He staggered, blood blooming at his split lip, but he didn’t fall.Ruthless conditioning kicked in. He recovered in an instant and lashed out, not with a fist but with the reinforced corner of the brie
Reid’s mind raced as he contemplated their next move. Charging in would be suicide; they needed to ground the jet. But how?His eyes scanned the hangar for plausible tools or equipment he could use. Then he saw it—an external power cart plugged into the jet’s auxiliary port, supplying ground power while the engines spooled. The plan was reckless, but brilliant.“You’ll have to create a distraction,” he whispered to Alessandra. “Near the main hangar door will do. Just hold their attention for about thirty seconds.”Alessandra didn’t ask for details. She nodded, produced a small incendiary device from a hidden pocket—part of her prep kit—and said, “Make it count, Reid.” She melted into the shadows, circling toward the front of the hangar.Reid moved like a phantom, keeping low and using stacks of crates and parked ground equipment for cover. The roar of the jet and the pounding rain were his allies as he crept forward until he reached the power cart—a heavy unit that hummed softly. He n
Minutes ticked by, marked only by Reid’s frantic tapping on the phone’s screen and the distant hum of traffic. Alessandra watched him, her hand curving protectively over her stomach as she drew strength from his intensity. At last, Reid grunted in pure satisfaction and held the phone up, revealing a grainy aerial feed of a small private airfield tucked into the hills north of the city.The sun blazed across the tarmac, where a sleek, unmarked executive jet—its engines already whining—sat beside a hangar. Security personnel and ground crew moved about the ground. Alessandra’s gaze locked on a lone figure, unmistakable even in the low resolution and harsh sunlight, walking briskly towards the lowered airstair, clutching a slim briefcase: Dante West. “Mariposa Executive Airfield,” Reid rasped. “He’s taking off in ten minutes.”He zoomed in on the feed. The hangar beside the jet stood partially open; inside, stacks of crates and server racks loomed in shadow.“He’s not just running,” Rei
Moments later, Alessandra stopped the van two blocks away in a deserted alley. Smoke poured from the engine, and bullet holes pocked the body.She glanced at Reid, his breath rasping from toxin exposure and a ricochet wound.“Were you hit?” she asked, voice thick with concern.“It’s just a scratch. I’ll be fine,” he muttered, voice barely audible.“Let’s tend that arm before we find somewhere to lie low,” she replied. She turned to the passenger seat and pulled a lever. The cushion flattened, forcing Reid to stretch out.She examined his injured arm. It looked bad, and though the bleeding had stopped, he had bled heavily.She retrieved a small med-kit from her jacket—a remnant of her prepared existence—and knelt on the driver’s seat. Wordlessly, hands surprisingly steady, she cut away the blood-soaked fabric to expose the embedded ricochet.Her fingers brushed his skin as she cleaned the wound—an intimacy that ignited things the last time. He watched her face in the harsh light of the