Chapter 19 - Elara
Elara
The world fractured into noise—gunfire snapping, engines howling, men shouting as dust turned the air into a storm. My pulse didn’t spike. It steadied, sharp and cold. Hydra had trained me for this: focus, efficiency, survival.
Beckett pressed in beside me, a wall of muscle and firepower. His rifle barked, dropping a man before he cleared cover. He didn’t look at me, but his body angled just enough to shield mine. Protective. Possessive. Infuriating.
“Left flank!” he barked.
I moved before I thought, sliding out low, catching a glimpse of two Hydra men circling wide. Their weapons came up. Mine was already leveled. Two clean shots. Both dropped. My hands didn’t shake.
When I ducked back in, Beckett’s eyes snapped to mine. For a split second, disbelief flickered there—like he hadn’t expected me to hold my ground. Then it was gone, replaced with grim focus.
We advanced. Truck doors flew open; crates tumbled out, spilling cash and packets stamped with Hydra’s insignia. Proof. Cyclone shouted coordinates, Oliver and Gage traded fire, and Beckett and I pushed to the lead vehicle.
A man lunged at me with a knife, blade flashing. Hydra had taught me how to handle this as well. I caught his wrist, twisted, slammed my knee into his gut, and drove the blade back across his arm. He went down hard, cursing.
Blood on my hands. My breath caught, not from fear, but recognition. This was what they’d made me. I hated it. I wanted to be a normal woman having fun.
Beckett grabbed my shoulder, yanking me behind cover as rounds peppered the metal above us. “Stay with me, Voss!” His voice was raw, threaded with something more than command.
I wanted to snap back to tell him I wasn’t some liability he had to drag through the fire. But then I caught the look in his eyes—fury and fear, yes, but underneath it, something else. Relief. Like he hadn’t expected me to still be standing.
The last truck fishtailed, tires screaming as Oliver dropped the driver with a perfect shot. The battlefield quieted, leaving only the ringing in my ears and the stench of burned rubber. I didn’t even know where that smell came from until I saw the shredded tires on the vehicle next to me.
I lowered my weapon slowly. My hands were steady. Too steady.
The dust began to settle, and in the silence, Beckett turned toward me. His gaze swept over me—bandage tugged loose, dirt smeared across my cheek, blood spattered on my vest that wasn’t mine.
“You fight like one of us,” he said, voice low. But the way he looked at me—sharp, searching—it wasn’t praise. It was a suspicion. Maybe even fear.
Because what he’d seen wasn’t the polished mask Hydra had paraded. He’d seen the weapon they’d built beneath it.
And I wasn’t sure which scared me more—Hydra’s reach, or the fact that Beckett Cole now knew exactly how dangerous I really was.