1. Render
Render
The warehouse smells like a problem no one has bothered fixing for years.
Old motor oil mixes with stagnant water in the dips and the faint sour tang of guards who stopped caring long ago.
Underneath it all lingers that sharp chemical bite of fear.
Not mine. I haven’t felt the useful kind in ages.
It simply clings to places like this like an unwanted guest that refuses to leave.
I crouch behind a rusted shipping container fifty yards from the south entrance and check the video feed on my phone one last time.
Two warm bodies linger near the main door on the ground floor and one more paces along the metal walkway above.
Three total. Serafina’s crew has grown cocky, which means tonight’s my shot.
Enley’s in the third container on the left. My chest tightens the moment I spot that faint orange glow on the heat map. Plastic cuffs at least, probably a chair. She’s been here for days since they killed the tracker Poe gave her.
A few days can break someone.
I shove the phone into my pocket. My hands are steady as I check the gun and the knife at my ribs, along with two extra magazines, a cheap burner, and the keys. I ran the numbers the whole drive over and they haven’t changed. Three guards. One way in. One way to get her out.
I roll my shoulders, feeling the night air cold and damp against my neck.
The rain stopped twenty minutes ago, but the asphalt still gleams under a busted streetlight down the block.
Somewhere in the city, Serafina loops that hostage video and waits for Poe to crack.
She thinks Enley is the key to keeping her brother in line.
She’s right about that part. Dead wrong about the rest.
I move.
The first stretch is wide open ground with no cover at all, just wet concrete and dripping gutters.
I stay low and quick, slipping through the shadows between the broken light and the warehouse flood lamp.
My heart slams harder than it should. Dean Maddox trained me, but this is real, not some drill I can laugh off later.
The door is old steel with hinges rusted to hell. I kick it hard. The frame shudders and the door flies open with a crash that echoes like a wrecking ball through the empty space. Dust swirls everywhere. Good. Let them look this way.
Both ground guards spin toward the noise.
The one on the left reaches for his pistol.
I squeeze off a shot. The silencer coughs and he drops.
My hands stay steady enough, but my breathing is a complete mess.
I’m not some polished professional. I’m not ex-military.
Dean gave me the basics through private work and plenty of bruises, enough to get by but far from perfect.
The second guard hesitates for half a second. That’s all I need. I throw the knife and it sinks high into his throat. He goes down, his pistol skittering across the floor like it wants nothing to do with this mess.
I yank the blade free and keep moving, my pulse thundering in my ears.
The guy on the walkway becomes the real problem.
He scrambles down the stairs instead of holding the high ground, a classic panic move.
The metal clangs under his boots like an off-key alarm.
I track the noise, lift the gun, and wait for him at the bottom.
Two shots. The first hits center and the second goes a little high. He slumps over the railing.
The warehouse falls silent except for the soft clink of shell casings settling and the distant thrum of the flood lamp outside. I don’t stop to check the bodies. The feed showed three. If someone is hiding back there, they can hear me coming anyway.
I reach the third container and grab the handle. Most of the red paint has rusted away. A padlock hangs there. I shoot it. The clang bounces around like a startled cat. I rip the door open.
Stale air hits me first, thick with cheap soap and the coppery bite of blood. Then the warehouse light pours in and I see her.
Enley sits zip-tied to a metal chair in the middle of the space.
Her wrists are pinned behind her back and her ankles are secured to the legs.
The plastic has cut deep. Pink hair sticks to her forehead with sweat and a nasty bruise spreads across her jaw toward her eye.
Her lip is split and crusted. She wears the same gray hoodie and jeans from the photo Knight showed me, though they look filthy now.
But her eyes, those moss-green ones I’ve avoided for years, lock onto mine. Recognition flashes first, then disbelief, and finally something closer to anger than thanks.
My chest squeezes tight. She’s alive. Breathing. Looking at me like I might be her salvation or the start of even more trouble.
I’ve watched her from across rooms for years, in crowded lofts after jobs and at that little diner where she would steal my fries and grin like she knew exactly what it did to my stupid heart.
Poe’s little sister. That was always my line.
The one solid rule that kept my hands to myself and my eyes mostly safe.
The line feels paper-thin tonight.
“Render?” Her voice cracks. She tries to stand and the chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “What the hell…”
I cross the space in three strides, drop to a knee, and cut the ties. Wrists first. She hisses as blood rushes back. Then the ankles. She stands but her legs give out immediately. Days in a chair will do that to anyone.
I catch her with an arm around her waist. The contact hits me like a live wire. She feels warm and alive, shaking so hard her teeth click together.
I should say something smart and reassuring. Instead I blurt, “I’ve got you.”
Her fists twist into my shirt. She’s not pushing me away. She’s holding on like I’m the only steady thing left in her world right now.
“Poe,” she says against my chest. “They’ve got Poe. The whole crew. Serafina…”
“I know. We’ll handle it. Right now we move.”
She pulls back. Blood lingers at the corner of her mouth and the bruise looks even worse up close. I fight the urge to march back and make extra sure those bodies stay down for good.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
“Yeah. I think.” She takes a step, wobbles, and nearly drops again.
There’s no time for nearly.
I scoop her up, one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. She’s lighter than she should be. They didn’t feed her. That fact burns into me for later.
“Put me down,” she says, her voice gaining strength. That familiar fire sparks in her eyes, the one I’ve always been a little too fond of. “I can walk, Render.”
“You can walk when we’re in the car.”
“That isn’t your call.”
“Tonight it is.”
She makes a sound that’s half annoyance and half something warmer. She stops fighting and wraps her arms around my neck. She holds on because it’s smart, not because she wants to. But her breath against my collarbone cracks something open inside me anyway, sending warmth spreading through my chest.
We get out fast. Outside the air feels cleaner and the wet pavement reflects the streetlight in silvery streaks.
The sedan waits two blocks south, black with clean plates and the engine already warm.
I set her down by the passenger door. She grabs the roof to steady herself while her legs slowly come back. Good.
I open the door. She glances at me, then the car, then the dark street, clearly calculating whether this ride beats the chair.
“Get in,” I say. “Please.”
The please slips out raw. She hears it and slides inside.
I close her door, circle around, and drop into the driver’s seat. The engine purrs to life. I check the mirrors and pull out with no headlights for the first four blocks. We glide through the streets like a shadow that’s lost its owner.
I keep my eyes forward. If I look at her I’ll see the bruise and the split lip and the raw wrists, and I’ll want to turn the car around.
Five blocks pass. Then six. We hit the highway ramp and I finally flip the lights on. The city fades behind us in neon smears.
Enley stays still. I hear her breathing, controlled and deliberate, while her hands flex in her lap as circulation returns.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Safehouse. Ten miles out. One nobody knows about.”
She remains quiet for another minute. “How did you find me?”
“Serafina’s crew sucks at cameras. I grabbed the heat feed they left wide open and matched it to the van’s path. It wasn’t too hard once I knew where to look.”
“Wasn’t hard,” she repeats flatly, testing the words.
“I’ve been watching her feeds for three weeks, since before they grabbed Poe.” I keep my eyes on the road. “Knight asked me to stay off the books as backup. If things went bad, I was the unknown.”
“Knight asked you.”
“Yeah.”
“So he saw this coming.”
“Possible. None of them thought it was likely.” The highway curves and I keep the speed steady. “Serafina’s smarter than they figured.”
She turns and stares at me. I feel the weight of her gaze like a touch. She’s assessing me now, nothing like those teasing diner looks she used to toss my way when she thought I wasn’t watching.
I was always watching.
“Why you?” she asks.
“What?”
“Why did Knight pick you? He could’ve asked Arrow. Gage. Anyone.”
Because Dean trained me to slip through dark spots and come back with who I went for. Because I don’t quit. Because I’m the misfit hacker who shows up anyway.
I don’t say any of that.
“Because I would’ve come whether he asked or not,” I tell her.
The air between us shifts and the car suddenly feels much smaller.
She turns to the window. Trees swallow the highway as the city drops away.
I drive.
The exit comes ten minutes later. I take the gravel turnoff marked by my reflector post. The road narrows and pines close in. I kill the lights halfway and follow memory through the dark.
The cabin appears like the woods forgot it was here. Single story with silver siding and one sagging roof corner. It’s the perfect hideout.
I park under the pine overhang, kill the engine, and scan the trees. Nothing moves.
“Stay here,” I say. “I’ll check first.”
She nods, exhaustion clear on her face. I clear the place quickly. One main room. Basic bathroom. Kitchenette with the canned stuff I stashed earlier. A fireplace I won’t use. One bed against the far wall.
I go back for her.
She’s already out, leaning against the door. Moonlight catches the bruise on her face. Her legs look steadier now. She walks in on her own and I let her. She needs that small victory.
Inside I flip the generator and dim lights flicker on. She stands in the middle of the room and eyes the bed, then the kitchenette, the table, and the two chairs. No couch.
“One bed,” she says.
“I’ll take the floor.”
“The concrete floor?”
“I’ve slept on worse.”
She looks at me for a long moment, really looking, with calculations running behind those beautiful green eyes. “No, you haven’t.”
“Sit,” I say as I pull out the first-aid kit. “Let me see your face.”
She sits on the edge of the bed. I drag a chair over so my knees bracket hers when I lean in. The space between us feels way too intimate.
I tip her chin gently. The bruise runs deep. My vision tunnels red for a second and I breathe through it. “Who?” I whisper.
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
She doesn’t answer. “Just clean it. I’m fine.”
She’s not, but I let it slide for now. I dab antiseptic on her lip and she flinches but stays still. The cut is shallow. The bruise will darken tomorrow.
My thumb brushes the edge of it and we both go still. We’re close enough that I see the gold flecks in her green eyes and feel her breath warm against my wrist. For years I’ve dodged this moment.
I pull back and stand, the chair suddenly feeling like a pitiful barrier between us.
“Get some sleep,” I say. “I’ll watch.”
“Render.”
“Yeah?”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. Something passes through her eyes that I can’t quite read and it bugs me. I’ve studied her from safe distances for years. “Thank you,” she breathes.
I nod, grabbing a blanket and dropping it by the door. The concrete is going to be miserable, but that’s fine. It’ll keep me sharp.
She lies down fully clothed, curling up facing me with her knees pulled up and one hand tucked under the pillow. The dim light catches her raw wrists. I look away.
I stretch out on the floor with my knife close and stare at the ceiling. I listen to her breathe, catching every inhale and every small shift.
Sleep won’t come and I don’t expect it. I lie here with the woman I’ve wanted for years just ten feet away and think about Poe bleeding somewhere, Serafina’s bored voice promising ruin, and the way Enley’s pulse felt under my fingers earlier.
She’s not fine.
Neither am I.
But she’s alive. Tonight that’s enough. Tomorrow we plan. Tomorrow we fight.
Right now I listen to her breathe and let that be enough.