Lahat ng Kabanata ng Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend: Kabanata 121 - Kabanata 130

The baby kicks.It’s a hard, sharp jab against my ribs. I wince, pressing my hand to the tight skin of my stomach. Seven months along. He feels heavy, restless, like he knows his father is in a cage.I sit on the porch swing of Old Man Petros’s safehouse. The chains creak—screech, screech—a rhythmic sound that grates on my nerves. The air out here in the foothills is clean, smelling of pine and rain, but I can’t smell it.I still smell the smoke.It’s stuck in my pores. It’s woven into my hair. The acrid, chemical stench of the burning river and the melting asphalt of the bridge. It’s been three weeks, but every time I close my eyes, I’m back in that watchtower."You should go inside," a voice rumbles.I look up.Leon stands at the bottom of the porch steps. He’s wearing a flannel shirt over his cut, his shotgun resting casually on his shoulder. He looks tired. Gray. The scar on his face stands out in the pale morning light."I need air," I say."You need rest," Leon counters. "Stress

The air inside County Jail smells of bleach, floor wax, and despair.It’s a thick, chemical cocktail that coats the back of my throat. I sit on a metal stool bolted to the floor, my hands resting on the cold stainless steel shelf in front of me. The fluorescent lights overhead hum with a dying, insectoid buzz that makes my headache worse."Visitor for Vasilios," a guard barks. He doesn't look at me. He looks at the clipboard.I straighten up. I zip Eleni’s leather cut all the way to my chin, shielding the baby from the hostile gaze of the room."I'm here," I say.The guard hits a buzzer. BUZZ.A heavy steel door on the other side of the room slides open.My breath catches.Two guards drag a man into the booth opposite mine.They aren't gentle. They shove him toward the stool.Drakon.He is wearing an orange jumpsuit that is too small for his broad shoulders. It strains against his muscles, bright and offensive.But it’s the metal that holds my eyes.He is shackled. A heavy belly chain

The city blurs past the tinted windows of the Mercedes, a streak of gray concrete and rain-slicked asphalt.I sit in the backseat, hunched over Henderson’s laptop. The screen glows blue in the dim interior, illuminating the dirt on my hands and the blood dried under my fingernails."Faster," I whisper.On the screen, a green progress bar crawls forward.UPLOADING: REAPER_PAYROLL_FINAL.ZIP STATUS: 88%"We're doing eighty, Thalia," Henderson says, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He checks the rearview mirror every three seconds. "If I go any faster, we'll attract the cops before you hit send.""We want the cops," I say without looking up. "We want the FBI. We want everyone."I tap the trackpad, opening a second window. The email draft is ready.TO: Internal Affairs Division (FBI); The New York Times; The Washington Post. SUBJECT: EVIDENCE OF FEDERAL CORRUPTION - AGENT MILLER / DEPUTY DIRECTOR VANCE.I didn't just attach the files. I wrote a summary. Dates. Locations. The bridg

"I have her," Leon says.The words are a physical blow. They hit me harder than the airbag, harder than the asphalt.I stare at him. The man who taught me to shoot. The man who stood back-to-back with Drakon in the bar fight. The man who just saved my life on the highway.He’s not a Wolf. He’s a suit. He’s one of them."You bastard," I whisper.I back away, my boots scraping against the wet pavement of the alley. I look for a weapon. A brick. A bottle. Anything."Stay back!" I scream. "Don't touch me!"Leon looks at me. He looks at the radio in his hand. Miller’s voice is still crackling through the speaker, demanding coordinates.Leon, do you copy? What is your twenty?Leon’s face is a mask of exhaustion and grime. He doesn't look like a fed. He looks like a biker who has ridden through hell.He lifts the radio.He doesn't answer Miller.He throws it.He hurls the black plastic brick with all his strength. It sails over the chain-link fence, arcing into the darkness of the industrial

"Goodbye, Leon," Miller whispers.His thumb twitches over the red button.The floodlights from the crane tower wash out his face, turning him into a pale, sweating ghost. He isn't the arrogant federal agent who blocked the road anymore. He is a man standing on the edge of a cliff, looking for company on the way down."Don't do it," Leon says. His voice is calm, almost gentle. The shotgun doesn't waver. "You press that button, you don't just kill us. You kill yourself.""I'm already dead!" Miller screams, spittle flying from his lips. "You killed me! You leaked the files!""The files just exposed the rot," I say, stepping up beside Leon.A contraction seizes me. It wraps around my spine, squeezing the breath from my lungs. I grit my teeth, leaning against Leon’s shoulder for support. I can't collapse. Not yet."You think they'll let me live?" Miller rants, his eyes darting to the tactical team surrounding us—his own men, looking unsure, weapons wavering. "The cartel? The DOJ? I'm a lia