Chapter 9 Landon #2
He drives like the SUV is an extension of his body, every lane change and acceleration precise.
We’ve been on the road for hours, the only lights outside a dull red glow from the dash and the occasional stutter of distant tail-lights on the highway.
I let my eyes close in the passenger seat, thinking maybe if I feign sleep, my brain will finally power down.
Instead, my mind loops back to the scene at the penthouse—the casual, offhand violence of him killing those men; the way he ordered me to pack as if it was always going to end like this.
I must drift off, because I snap back to consciousness when the phone rings, piercing the warm, hushed dark inside the car. My body locks up before I even register the sound. Briar flicks the phone from the cupholder, puts it on speaker.
“Harrington,” he says. No warmth, no greeting. His other hand tightens on the wheel until the knuckles go white.
The voice that answers is genderless and cold. It’s like someone taught a computer how to be disappointed in you. “Mr. Harrington. This is the Director.”
My skin crawls.
Briar keeps his eyes on the road, jaw set. “Go ahead.”
The Director ignores him, or maybe doesn’t hear the edge in his tone.
“Your assessment of the Thompson liability was due hours ago. Instead, we have a report of two Enforcement agents missing after visiting your residence. In addition, Internal noticed some irregularities in your initial intake logs. Would you care to explain?”
Briar’s voice is smooth as glass. “The asset has been remanded. The Enforcement agents were unnecessary. I’ll handle the rest personally.”
A pause. “Handle how?”
“Standard protocol,” Briar says. “No traces, no witnesses. I’ll keep the asset in containment. There’s no need for further intervention.”
Another long silence. The Director’s exhale is almost a sigh, like the world’s most patient teacher explaining simple math to an idiot child. “You are not authorized for freelance. We need confirmation of disposal by dawn. If you fail, the matter escalates to your own asset status. Are you clear?”
Briar doesn’t flinch. “Understood.”
“Excellent.” The line clicks dead.
It’s only then that I realize my hands are clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms. I’m shaking, shoulders tight, and the urge to scream is loud in my chest.
He is giving up everything.
I stare at the window, see nothing but my own reflection, pale and sweating, caught between streetlights as we cut through the rising dusk.
“Was that… always the plan?” My voice is so thin I barely recognize it.
Briar flicks his eyes to me for half a second, then back to the highway. “Doesn’t matter what the plan was. Only what it is now.”
I wait, hoping for more, but he goes silent.
I want to vomit, or maybe punch him, or maybe just climb into the back seat and curl up until this whole thing is over. But the world has narrowed down to the sound of my breathing and the knowledge that if I fall asleep, it might be the last time.
After a long time, Briar says, “You’re safer with me than anywhere else. That hasn’t changed.”
I want to tell him he’s lying, but he’s not. I believe him more than I want to.
The car hums over the asphalt, engine a steady lullaby. My mind races, unable to slow the steady stream of panic, lust, thrill, and anxiety.
Briar doesn’t speak again, but the tension in him has changed. Before, it was the usual predator energy, the readiness to snap. Now it’s something else—like he’s on a wire, a single wrong move away from losing everything.
I realize I’m not the only one at risk. If he fucks up, if he fails, the machine that made him will eat him too.
And he already made his decision. He chooses me.
I should be terrified, but mostly I just feel a weird, sharp clarity, like ice in my veins.
We take back roads the rest of the day. The sun is barely hanging on when we pull off a county highway and into a gravel drive choked with weeds and dead leaves.
The trees crowd close around the house, thick enough to block line of sight from the road, but not so thick that I don’t notice every potential hiding place between here and the tree line.
Briar kills the headlights and we coast the last hundred feet, coming to a stop at a single-story cabin that looks like it hasn’t been lived in for a decade. The place is ugly, patched together from concrete and wood, with tarps nailed over the windows and a stack of rotting firewood by the door.
I stare at it, then at Briar. “This?”
He glances at me, blue eyes gone almost colorless in the cold light. “We’re here for supplies. We won’t be here long.”
He leaves the engine running and gets out, scans the woods, then gestures for me to follow. My legs are numb, not just from the drive, but from the shock that still hasn’t worked its way out of my system.
We’re up the steps in seconds. He unlocks the door with a key from under the mat—a cliche that actually works—and shoves me inside. The air smells like mildew and dust, but it’s warmer than I expect.
He moves fast, making a circuit of the windows, checking locks, then disappearing down a hallway that branches off the main room. I hear him open and close three doors, then a thump like something heavy dropping onto a floor.
I linger near the door, muscles braced for something—gunfire, an alarm, maybe just the sense that this is all about to go sideways.
He comes back with a backpack that has guns sticking out of it and a handgun, both of which he sets on the kitchen counter. “You hungry?” he says, but it’s a test, not a question.
I shake my head.
He nods, as if that’s the right answer. “I’m gonna make something to eat and then we’re back on the road.”
I nod, because words don’t want to leave my throat.
He grabs the bag, then points me to a battered recliner in the living room. I sit, and the springs creak under my weight. I try to look around, but the tarps on the windows make it cave-dark inside, except for a thin beam of light leaking through a crack in the ceiling.
He rummages around in the kitchen cupboards, the sound of a can opener working and a thunk as something falls out and into a bowl. The microwave beeps as he times the food.
I break first. “Are they coming now?”
He glances at the window. “Probably. They’ll follow the route, find the tire marks. If we’re lucky, they’ll waste a few hours at the first safe house and Noah will hold them up, before they figure out the switch.”
“What if we’re not lucky?” My voice sounds like a stranger’s.
He grins, but it’s not happy. “Then I hope you finally learn to listen to my instructions.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just sit, clutching my own knees and trying not to shake. The microwave beeps, signaling the end of it’s heating cycle, but Briar makes no attempt to move. His gaze is fixed on a grainy security feed on the wall.
A minute later, a chime splits the air—three fast beeps, then silence.
I jump.
Briar stands, gun raised, and moves to the hallway. “Perimeter breach,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Come.”
We move through the kitchen to a door at the far end. He opens it, and I see a set of wooden stairs leading down—basement, unfinished, cold as hell. He gestures for me to go ahead.
I hesitate. The dark at the bottom of the stairs is frightening. I can’t see an inch into it. But I go, one hand pressed to the rough wall. He follows close, gun aimed over my shoulder.
We hit the concrete floor and I nearly slip, but he catches me by the elbow. His hand is hot, alive. I want to lean into it, to let him steady me, but I force myself to stand upright.
He leads me to a wall lined with shelves—canned food, bottled water, what looks like a first-aid kit and a field radio.
Next to the shelves, three bookcases, packed with paperbacks in no particular order.
He shoves the third one, hard, and it pivots out from the wall, revealing a narrow crawlspace beyond.
“Go,” he says.
I squeeze through, my shoulders scraping both sides, and almost fall into the little room on the other side. It’s just tall enough to stand in, with a bare bulb overhead and a desk built into the far wall. There’s a cot, unmade, and a stack of blankets on top.
“This is where you stay,” he says. “You do not come out unless I come to get you. You do not answer if you hear anyone but me. Understood?”
I want to say yes. Instead, I grab his sleeve, desperate. “You can’t fight them all, Briar. You know that, right?”
He smiles, not like he thinks it’s funny, but like he thinks I’m missing the point. “I don’t need to win. I just need to make sure you’re alive.”
My heart stutters at that. I want to say something—anything—but the words don’t come.
He leans in, close, and for a second I think he’s going to threaten me, or order me to obey again.
Instead, he kisses me.
It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s not even sweet. It’s teeth and tongue and salt and desperation. His hand cradles the back of my head, thumb at the hinge of my jaw, and he pours something into me—fear, hope, maybe just the will to survive.
He pulls back, eyes wild, lips parted.
“If I don’t come back, wait one hour. Then you run. There’s a tunnel in that room that leads out into the forest. Find it, travel it and go. You don’t stop for anything.”
I nod, because there’s nothing else I can do.
He turns, closes the bookcase, and is gone before I can even reach for him.
The little room is silent. I stand there, swaying, not sure what to do. There’s a monitor built into the desk, old and black, but it flickers to life as soon as I touch the power. Four feeds: one from the front door, one from the kitchen, one from the driveway, one from the woods out back.
I watch the screens, my pulse loud in my ears.
On the front door feed, I see movement: two shadows, maybe three, darting past the window. One crouches, weapon drawn. They move like pros, no wasted motion.
I hear the first shot, muffled but close. I flinch, knock over a can of beans from the shelf. The clatter makes me jump again.
On the screen, Briar steps into the frame, gun raised. He fires once, twice, and one of the shadows drops. The other two scatter, one firing blind through the window, shattering glass and scattering dust. Briar doesn’t duck. He moves, trying to get to the table where the bag of guns lies.
One of the attackers follows and punches him in the back of the head. Briar grins, rearing back and head butting him square in the nose.
It’s so intimate, the violence. The impact, the heat, the spray of blood over Briar’s skin It’s less like a fistfight and more like a choreographed hate confession, every strike timed to say something raw and secret between killers.
I want to look away, but I can’t. Even as I dig my fingernails into my thighs and whisper “please, please,” I keep my eyes glued to the pixelated black-and-white ballet on the monitor.
Briar’s smile is the last thing one guy sees before he pulls the trigger, the shot blasting through his face.
The dude goes down clutching the new hole where his nose should be, and Briar doesn’t bother with a finishing move—he just pivots, catches another one in the shoulder with a bullet, just as a knife comes across, catching Briar across the stomach.
He doesn’t even pause. He just grabs the guys hand, twists, breaks the bone and takes the knife, driving it into his attackers neck.
Once. Twice. Three times and it’s over.
It’s beautiful. It’s horrifying. My mouth is a dry, echoing pit. I try to remember how to breathe.
The feed goes static for a second. My hands are shaking so bad I can’t keep them still.
I watch, and I wait, and I pray to every god I’ve never believed in.
For a long time, nothing.
Then, the basement door opens. Briar staggers in, a gash on his arm and one across his stomach, blood soaking the fabric of his shirt.
The relief is so huge it almost knocks me off my feet.
He disappears out of sight. I run to the door, press my ear against it, and listen.
A moment later, the bookcase cracks open. He stands there, gun at his side, face white but alive.
He sees me and grins. “Told you I’d come back.”
I can’t think. I just throw myself at him, wrap my arms around his waist, and hold on tight.
He winces, but hugs me back with his good arm.
We stand like that, both shaking, until the sun finally cracks the sky outside and paints the little bunker in orange.
“There’s a first aid kit in the corner. Be a good pet and grab it. You’re gonna learn how to sew me up before we get the fuck out of here.”