“You know I can’t,” he says, voice shaded with the same regret I hear in my own head. “The less we say, the safer you’llbe.” He steps past, like he’s going to shoulder through the wall if he has to.
"Bullshit. I'm not evidence you can seal away. I'm not some secret you get to bury and then pat yourself on the back for protecting." The word rips from my throat.
That stops him, at least. He sets the duffel down carefully, as if it’s fragile. When he finally looks up, something changes in his eyes. I expect him to explode, but instead, he just seems to collapse inward, everything folding in on itself.
“Delilah.” He says my name like a confession. “I’d burn this whole fucking county to the ground if it meant you’d walk away clean.”
The silence that follows is the kind that leaves scars.
I laugh. It isn’t pretty. “What if I don’t want to walk away? What if I want to stay here and watch it burn?”
He grabs my jaw, thumb cupping under my chin. “You don’t know what you’re missing. Freedom. A normal life.” The words are frantic and flat, like he’s trying to sell me something at the exact moment he’s throwing it in the trash.
“I know enough to know normal’s an optical illusion.” My teeth chatter from the cold, the fury, or both. “You could have had it, you know, if you weren’t such a coward.”
He releases me, but his hands don’t drop far. They hover at my neck, trembling. “It’s not fear of them. It’s fear of what I’d do to keep you.” He takes a deep breath and lowers his head until his lips are only inches from mine. “When this is over, I won’t stop.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CADE
Ipace my living room. I stare at the untouched mugs of coffee, the blinking modem that's been down for three days. The storm is over, but it left teeth marks all over the property. I see tangled tree limbs out the front window and the fence line, battered flat in at least two places. The air smells like ozone. Everything feels half-charged and holding its breath. All the power lines are back up for miles—except mine. I know this isn’t an accident.
I sit at the desk—a battered behemoth I haven’t used in months—and double-check the encrypted feeds I still have running. These feeds are a paranoid relic from the old days. The new team handling Delilah’s security is Phelps’s guys, straight from DC. All the men are former SEALs and alphabet contractors. I don’t know any of the team, but I know the type. The security team moves with a staccato precision that reads efficient. Their methods bleed together: maximum control with a side of contempt. I’ve seen the team on screen, how they manhandle Delilah, how they treat her as a portable problem to relocate, as a brat with a trust fund and a death wish. They make me want to break things.
I click through the security logs. The access records for the temporary safe house are careless: garbled timestamps, shifts bleeding into each other, and someone not signing in or out. The perimeter cameras stutter into static at exact intervals. Coincidence—if you believe in that. 4:00 a.m., shift change—hallway view. A tall man in tactical black. A shadow—Delilah. Her hair was tangled; her face turned away. The man's hand clamps on her upper arm, too long. She jerks to shake it off. He locks his grip. His lips move. She spits a reply, so biting I can almost hear it through the grainy image. The man doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile.
That’s the moment I know I can’t just sit here. I spent the last week pretending that watching her from a distance is what’s best. I told myself that pulling out doesn’t matter as long as I have eyes on her. But she’s surrounded by people who see her as an assignment, not a person—and that’s what led us here in the first place. I punch out the screens, jam my duffel full of new clothes, fresh mags, and burner phones. I gas up the truck. I’ll hit the road west at dusk, drive through the night. If I time it right, I can be at the safehouse by sunup, before her father’s people make the next move.
But I’m stalling. I want to check my phone. I want to hear from her.
Delilah: Are they always like this?
Me: Who’s “they?”
Delilah: Phelps’ men. They keep moving me.
Me: Where exactly?
[no reply for ten minutes]
Delilah: West side. Basement room. No windows.
Ten minutes to type six words. Either she’s watched, or this is her version of a distress call—something caged up in lowercase. I stare at the line for a full minute before I answer.
Me: I’m coming, Delilah. Sit tight.
I want to say more, but if they sweep her phone, silence is safer. I drop it in the glove compartment, gun the engine from the gravel lot. The treeline dwindles in my rearview. I feel the leash snap. All I have to do now is not fuck up.
I take back roads, keep under the speed limit, and stay invisible. At 3:20 a.m., I park a half mile from the safe house perimeter. The place is a prefab ranch, dumped in the middle of nowhere. Some abandoned the developer’s dream. I know these kinds of places; I’ve drawn up the specs myself. The windows are bulletproof polycarbonate. The basement slab is poured cheaply, and there’s a rear access hatch camouflaged as a crawl space vent. I take it.
Inside reeks of bleach, fresh paint, and gun oil. The light is clinical, cold, sterile. An endless hum from ancient ventilation. Boots scuff overhead—two, maybe three pairs at intervals—then silence. I keep to the shadows and move fast. The walls crowd in. Too close. The distance floor-to-ceiling can’t muffle my pulse drumming panic.
Delilah’s in the lowest room. Door propped, light on. The sight of her guts me in a way I’m not prepared to see. She’s hunched on a cot, knees up, clutching a spiral notebook tight to her chest. Her hair is a tangle of knots, her face all angles and hollows. Her eyes lock on the doorway like she's waiting for someone to try her. When she sees me, there's no relief, no smile—just the slight shift of her weight to the balls of her feet, coiled and waiting.
“What took you so long?” she says.
“I had to wait until you were alone.” I keep my voice low, calm, though every instinct is to run to her, pick her up, and check her for bruises. “Anyone else down here?”