23. The Instinctive Need To Escape
23
THE INSTINCTIVE NEED TO ESCAPE
~EZEKIEL~
K amari's body falls into my arms like a marionette with cut strings, her weight slight but precious as I catch her before she can hit the floor.
"Fuck," I curse under my breath, years of medical training kicking in as I immediately press my fingers to her neck. The pulse beneath my touch is slightly thready but maintains a strong underlying beat – not ideal, but better than I'd initially feared given the circumstances.
My mind races through the implications even as I check her other vital signs.
The odd scent I'd noticed upon entering makes terrible sense now, though I curse myself for not identifying it sooner. I'd recognized it as out of place but hadn't classified it as an active threat – the telltale sweetness of aerosolized Theta-9 had been too subtle, deliberately dispersed to avoid immediate detection by even trained professionals.
It's a rookie mistake, letting my guard down in what should have been a secure location. But then, the Safe Haven's reputation for neutrality usually ensures certain lines don't get crossed.
The fact that someone dared use chemical agents here speaks volumes about how desperate our opponents have become.
Low-life bastards.
Scooping her up with practiced efficiency, I take a moment to arrange her against my chest in a way that will protect her airways. Her head lolls against my shoulder, dark hair spilling over my arm in a way that makes my inner Alpha snarl with protective rage.
The trust she's shown us, the way she's begun to fit so naturally into our pack dynamic – and now this happens under our watch.
We’re playing with forces that don’t mind playing dirty. We can’t let a mistake pass like this again.
I rush back to the living room where Damon stands with his phone in his grasp, clearly on speaker. A deep frown creases his aristocratic features.
Even in crisis mode, he maintains that dangerous grace that makes hardened criminals think twice about crossing him.
"How soon can you get us a flight?" he demands, his tone carrying that particular edge that suggests someone's life may depend on the answer.
His darkened eyes lift to take in my approach, the frown deepening as he registers Kamari's unconscious form in my arms. The slight tightening around his eyes is the only indication of his emotional response, years of control keeping his Alpha rage carefully contained.
"Chemicals in the air. We gotta leave." The warning comes out clipped and professional, my years of tactical training taking over. My mind's already cataloging symptoms and calculating exposure times – how long before the residual agent affects us, how quickly we need to clear the contaminated space.
Damon nods sharply, his focus returning to his call with renewed intensity.
"Secure the jet. We're coming now. Straight onto the runway." His voice carries that particular timbre that makes even the most hardened operators snap to attention. "I don't care about the costs."
He ends that call without waiting for confirmation, immediately dialing another number while his free hand reaches into his perfectly tailored jacket.
The emergency mask he produces brings back memories – standard issue from when I first joined the task force and became everyone's favorite target for "awareness training."
Those surprise attacks were supposedly meant to teach rookies to stay alert, though one particular incident left both Damon and me higher than kites on some experimental compound.
The sex that night had been phenomenal – the kind of uninhibited passion that only comes with completely lowered inhibitions. But Damon rarely allows anyone to see him with compromised control. The people responsible learned that lesson thoroughly – or would have, if they'd survived to remember it.
My hands move automatically to secure the mask over Kamari's face, the practiced motion bringing back muscle memories of similar situations. The mask looks too large for her delicate features, but the seal should hold well enough to filter any remaining contaminants.
Damon's already producing a second one, trying to put it on me.
"No. On you," I order, watching his eyes narrow at the command.
Even after years of partnership, both professional and personal, he still bristles at being told what to do. But this isn't about hierarchy or dominance – it's about tactical necessity.
"If we're going out of the country, you can't risk losing consciousness," I explain quickly, shifting Kamari's weight to maintain better control. "You're the lead when we're out of our territory. You know the reasoning for that."
The logic is sound, even if he hates it.
My mixed heritage makes me an easy target for "random" security checks and endless questioning, despite my detective credentials and impressive closure rate.
Put simply, I look too "exotic" to pass without scrutiny in certain circles. But Damon? His reputation transcends borders. No one dares delay or question him too closely, not if they value their continued existence.
His scowl deepens, but he complies, securing the mask with efficient movements that speak of similar training. The phone in his hand buzzes again – Rhett this time, his name flashing on the screen with urgent priority.
"Was bringing the car to the front," Rhett reports, tension evident in his voice. "Where's Kieran?"
The question sends ice through my veins as Damon and I exchange alarmed looks.
We'd left Kieran in front of the building, ostensibly having a smoke while keeping watch. The fact that Rhett can't locate him sets off every warning bell in my tactical training.
Kieran isn't just any civilian – he's a trained operator in his own right, despite his public persona suggesting otherwise.
The fact that he's out of contact suggests this situation just graduated from concerning to potentially catastrophic. If someone managed to neutralize Kieran despite his training and natural capabilities, we're dealing with serious professionals.
Damon's gun appears in his hand with fluid grace, drawn from the concealed holster he wears like a second skin. The weapon – a custom Sig Sauer that probably costs more than most people's cars – looks perfectly natural in his grip.
He moves toward the door with predatory intent while I adjust my grip on Kamari, preparing to run if necessary.
The weight of my own weapon presses against my side, but I can't draw it while carrying her. The tactical trade-off isn't ideal, but Kamari's safety takes precedence over offensive capabilities right now.
Besides, between Damon's legendary aim and Rhett's various talents, we should have enough firepower to handle the most immediate threats.
The door opens under Damon's touch just as a grunt of pain echoes from outside, followed by the distinctive thud of a body hitting the floor.
The sound carries certain qualities that experienced operators learn to recognize – the weight distribution, the way clothing rustles against carpet, even the particular tone of the impact.
Someone just went down hard, and not by choice.
The hallway presents a scene of efficient devastation – at least ten bodies sprawled across the floor in various states of unconsciousness, with Kieran standing calmly in the middle like the eye of a storm.
He cracks his neck and rubs his knuckles with casual grace, as if taking down multiple assailants is just a mild workout for him.
Looking over his shoulder, his usual composed expression falters slightly when his mismatched eyes land on Kamari's unconscious form in my arms.
"Chemicals?" he asks as we step over groaning bodies to reach him.
"Yeah. Not strong enough to kill but totally would have an effect on our princess," I confirm, noting how his jaw tightens at the information. The careful way he studies my face makes me add, "I'm fine for now. Used to this shit."
The words come out steady despite the growing heaviness in my limbs. Years of exposure training help me recognize the symptoms while fighting them – the slight tunnel vision, the way my muscles want to relax despite the situation demanding alertness.
But admitting weakness now won't help anyone.
"Let's move," Damon declares, his phone already at his ear. "I'll let Velvet know of the cleanup on this level."
We bypass the elevator, heading for the stairs just as its doors start to close. A chorus of curses echoes down the stairwell – more hostiles, apparently unhappy about their teammates' failure.
Guess this is gonna turn into a chase.
"Rhett, we're coming from the side alleyway," Damon orders through his phone, his voice carrying that tone of absolute authority that brooks no argument.
"Already there waiting," Rhett confirms.
The moment we push through the emergency exit, I see why Rhett sounded so confident.
Instead of the G-Wagon we arrived in, a tactical van idles in the alley, its engine purring with barely contained power. A low whistle escapes me as Damon ushers me in first, his gun covering our six while I maneuver Kamari's unconscious form into the vehicle.
Kieran performs one final sweep of our surroundings before retrieving what looks like a police emergency light from the van's equipment rack. The magnetic mount attaches to the roof with practiced ease, suggesting this isn't the first time they've needed such camouflage.
The van's already moving as Kieran slides the door shut, demonstrating impressive agility as he climbs over seats to reach the front passenger position.
Rhett, meanwhile, proves why he's considered one of the best drivers in multiple racing circuits – the van navigates the tight alley like a vehicle half its size, emerging onto the street with surgical precision.
The siren's wail parts traffic like magic, creating a clear path for our escape.
I take advantage of the relative stability to check Kamari's pulse again, noting with relief that it remains steady despite the chemical exposure. Damon works beside me with efficient movements, preparing some sort of breathing apparatus that looks more advanced than standard medical equipment.
He has it connected to Kamari within seconds, the mask fits perfectly over her delicate features. The effect is almost immediate – her breathing becomes less labored, some of the tension leaving her unconscious form as the counteragent does its work. Thank goodness.
Damon's phone rings again, and he answers without taking his attention from monitoring Kamari's response to the treatment.
"Report," he demands, his voice carrying that edge of controlled violence that makes even hardened operators nervous.
"Jet's prepped and ready," the voice comes through clearly in the van's quiet interior. "All materials will be at the destination upon arrival. You'll need to keep the bride distracted for a few hours beforehand, but everything will be ready to go. No one will expect you to come, especially given the circumstances."
"Understood," Damon acknowledges, his free hand still adjusting something on the breathing apparatus.
"Where the fuck are we going?" Rhett asks from the driver's seat, taking a corner fast enough to make the van's tires squeal in protest.
Kieran glances at the side mirror before responding.
"A jet to who knows where, but I guess it's better than here." His tone shifts slightly as he adds, "You wanna pick up the pace? We're being tailed."
Rhett's laugh carries that particular edge of anticipation I've learned to recognize – the sound of someone about to do something either brilliant or insane.
"I know we're being tailed. Just wanted to make sure we're heading to the airport and not the warehouse to fuck those assholes up." His grin is audible as he asks, "Guess I should get rid of them, huh?"
A thunderous crash from behind draws our attention, and we turn just in time to witness what can only be described as orchestrated chaos.
A massive SUV – one of our pursuers – has been expertly maneuvered into colliding with a traffic light post, taking another vehicle with it in a spectacular display of precision driving.
Our collective gazes slowly shift to Rhett, who maintains an expression of pure innocence as he whistles some upbeat tune.
His eyes remain fixed on the road ahead while he casually signals a lane change, cutting across four lanes of traffic to reach the emergency lane with surgical precision.
The van doesn't so much as sway despite the aggressive maneuver, a testament to both the vehicle's modification and Rhett's exceptional skill.
The silence in the van grows pointed as we process what just happened. Rhett merely shrugs, the picture of nonchalance.
"What?"
"Remind me not to piss you off," Kieran sighs, though I catch the slight upturn of his lips that suggests both exasperation and admiration.
The knowledge that we're successfully en route to the airport, combined with visual confirmation that our pursuers have been neutralized, allows some of the tension to leak from my muscles.
Kamari's steady breathing beneath the mask provides additional reassurance – we got to her in time, and prevented whatever our enemies had planned.
Perhaps it's this sense of relative safety that finally allows the chemical agent to properly take hold.
My eyes grow increasingly heavy, my head wanting to drift forward despite my best efforts to maintain alertness. Years of training scream at me to fight it, to stay conscious until we reach complete safety, but my body has other ideas.
A gentle touch to my forehead stops the forward momentum.
Through increasingly heavy eyelids, I manage to focus on Damon kneeling before us, one hand steadying me while the other maintains a firm grip on Kamari's breathing apparatus.
The sight of him managing both tasks with such careful attention makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
I try to assure him that I'm fine, that I can maintain consciousness until we reach our destination, but the words refuse to form.
Instead of accepting my unspoken protest, he leans forward until our lips meet in a kiss that somehow manages to be both brief and deeply meaningful.
The contact carries none of our usual heat or passion. Instead, it feels like a promise, an assurance that transcends our complicated dynamic. In this moment, he's not just my Alpha or my occasional lover – he's my partner, my protector, the one person I trust completely to handle things when I can't.
"Just rest," he murmurs against my lips, his voice carrying that particular tone of command that bypasses all my usual resistance. "I'll handle the rest."
Those words, combined with the growing heaviness in my limbs, make it impossible to keep fighting.
I've done my part – gotten Kamari out safely, and maintained function long enough to ensure our escape. Now I can pass the responsibility to my Alpha, to the man I've spent years pretending not to love despite every instinct drawing me to him.
As consciousness slips away, I find comfort in knowing that Damon will protect both me and our Omega.
He'll guide us into whatever new territory awaits, and handle whatever challenges arise while I recover. It's a level of trust I never expected to develop with anyone, let alone someone who walks the line between law and crime with such careful precision.
The last thing I register is the solid warmth of his presence, the way he arranges himself to support both me and Kamari as the van continues its journey.
Even through the growing darkness, I can sense his protective aura enveloping us both – the criminal mastermind who commands empires choosing to focus entirely on keeping his detective and their newly discovered Omega safe.
The world fades to black as the van speeds toward our destination, carrying us away from danger and toward whatever future awaits.
We're a pack…this is going to be what we fight for.
And nothing – not chemical attacks, not pursuing enemies, not even my own stubborn resistance to admitting deeper feelings – can change that fundamental truth that we want this to be everlasting.
As consciousness finally releases its hold completely, I give myself over to that certainty, knowing that when I wake, they'll have ensured we're all safe.
Together.