Semua Bab THE BIKER'S ACCIDENTAL LADY: Bab 71 - Bab 79

Target number five was in New York.Manhattan. Crowded. Complicated. High risk.Her name was Natasha Volkov. Elena's sister. The family kept multiplying like cancer."She runs trafficking operation," Vera briefed us. "Children. Young girls. Sells them to highest bidders. Also wants you dead. Bonus—she has information on remaining targets. Kill her. Take her files. Accelerate the timeline."We arrived in New York on a Tuesday. Surveillance started immediately.Natasha was careful. Paranoid. Changed locations daily. Used body doubles. Professional security."This will take weeks," Damien said. Watching her convoy disappear into underground garage. "Maybe months.""We do not have months. Vera is dying faster than expected. Six months became four. Four became three." I checked my phone. Message from Vera's doctors. Updates I was not supposed to see. "We need to move fast. Take risks.""Risks get us killed—""Caution gets Hope killed. Choose."He chose. We both chose. Same answer. Always t

The compound descended into hell within minutes.Catherine's forces breached three entry points simultaneously. Professional. Coordinated. Overwhelming.Vera's security—twelve trained operatives—lasted four minutes. Then silence. Just gunfire. Screaming. Death moving closer."Safe room. Now." Damien pushed me toward the stairs. "Get Hope. I hold them here—""We go together—""I cannot run. Lung still collapsed. I slow you down. Get Hope out. I buy time. That is best option—""Best option is we survive together—"Explosion. Wall beside us disintegrated. Concrete. Dust. Fire. Someone threw grenades.Through the smoke—figures advancing. Tactical gear. Night vision. Moving like machines.Damien opened fire. Dropped three. Six more appeared. Too many. Always too many."GO!" He shoved me toward stairs. "Get our daughter!"I ran. Hating myself. Hating everything. But choosing Hope. Always Hope.Down. Three levels. Emergency lighting. Red. Ominous. Every shadow could hide death.Made it to sa

We landed in Virginia at dawn.Federal safe house. Sixth one this year. Torres promised this time was different. This time was secure.I stopped believing promises.Hope fell asleep in the car. Exhausted. Traumatized. Four years old with nightmares older than most adults."She needs therapy," Torres said. Watching Hope through rearview mirror. "Real therapy. Not training. Not survival skills. Actual child psychology—""And tell them what? My daughter killed a man at four? Watched her parents murder dozens? Lived through eight assassination attempts?" I looked at Torres. "What therapist is cleared for that?""We have specialists. Federal—""Federal specialists report to someone. Someone reports to someone else. Eventually—information leaks. Eventually someone decides Hope is liability. Or asset. Either way—she disappears into system. Into programs. Into becoming exactly what Marcus wanted. Weapon."Torres had no answer. Because I was right. We both knew it.The safe house was suburban.

Marcus returned three hours later.Not alone.He brought Hope."Surprise." He held her hand. She looked—different. Dressed in expensive clothes. Hair styled. Face—blank. Empty. Wrong."Hope!" I lunged. Marcus pressed button. Damien's heart monitor flatlined. Alarms screaming."Stop or he dies. Permanently this time."I froze. Damien's body seizing. Marcus waited. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.Then restarted the machine. Damien gasped. Alive. Barely."Good. You learn consequences quickly. Now. Sit. Watch. Learn what happens when you defy me."Hope walked to me. Mechanical. Programmed. She hugged me. No warmth. Just motion."Hello, Mama. Grandfather brought me. Said you needed me. Said we are family now.""Baby what did he do to you—""Nothing yet." Marcus smiled. "But I will. Starting now. Hope—show Mama what you learned."Hope pulled out knife. Small. Child-sized. Sharp."Grandfather taught me. Proper grip. Proper angle. Proper—force." She demonstrated on air. Professional. Practiced. P

Torres chose the meeting location.Abandoned warehouse. Industrial district. Clichéd but practical. Multiple exits. Clear sightlines. Isolated.She was smart. Always had been.Not smart enough.I arrived at midnight. Hope beside me. Both armed. Both programmed. Both—ready.Torres emerged from shadows. Thinner. Harder. Three weeks on the run showing."Flora. Thank god. I was not sure you would come. Not sure if you were—" She stopped. Studied my face. My posture. My—emptiness. "What did he do to you?""He made me better. Stronger. Perfect." My voice. Marcus's words. His programming speaking."No. No no no—" Torres backed up. Saw Hope. Eight years old. Armed. Emotionless. "Hope? Baby what—""I am not baby. I am Ashford. I am weapon. I am here to kill you." Hope raised her gun. Steady. Professional. Eight years old."Flora stop this. Fight it. Whatever drugs—whatever programming—you are stronger than this. I know you are—""You know nothing." I moved. Cutting off her escape. "You abandon