13. Lyric
CHAPTER 13
LYRIC
The truck lurched into motion, headlights cutting swaths through the darkness as it pulled away from the hangar. In the shadows, Flynn and I moved like ghosts, keeping pace along the perimeter fence.
“If we lose that truck, we lose Sentinel,” I hissed, my legs pumping as we sprinted across the tarmac. The transport was picking up speed, heading for the airfield’s rear gate.
“We’re not losing it,” Flynn growled, veering toward a row of parked vehicles. He tested the door of a sleek Mercedes.
Locked.
He moved to a BMW and cursed under his breath when it, too, wouldn’t budge.
I tried the black Audi next to it, and the door swung open without resistance. I slid behind the wheel and set to work overriding the onboard computer.
“Someone’s getting fired,” Flynn said and jumped into the passenger seat. “You need help?”
“No.”
The engine roared to life. Ten seconds. A personal best.
Flynn’s face lit with fierce satisfaction. “That’s my girl.”
“I’m not your girl.”
“You will be when I have you screaming my name later.”
Cocky bastard.
But he wasn’t wrong. I had every intention of finishing what we started in his hotel room.
He pulled his gun and shifted in his seat, checking our six just as something pinged off our bumper. “Aw, fuck. We’ve got trigger-happy company.”
I checked the mirror. Two guards had noticed us and were running our way, guns up and firing.
Flynn thumped a hand on the dashboard. “Go, go, go!”
I gunned it. The Audi shot forward, tires squealing as we raced after the transport truck.
The gates were closing ahead. Automatic metal barriers sliding together like the jaws of some mechanical beast. I pressed the accelerator harder, my knuckles white against the steering wheel.
“They’re going to lock us in,” I muttered, calculating angles and speed. We had maybe five seconds before those gates sealed shut.
“Floor it,” Flynn said, his voice steady despite the bullets pinging off our rear quarter panel.
I did. The Audi surged forward, engine screaming as we shot toward the narrowing gap. Metal scraped against metal as we squeezed through with inches to spare, the side mirror snapping clean off against the gate.
“Jesus,” Flynn breathed, twisting to look back at our pursuers. “That was close.”
“We’re not clear yet.” I kept my eyes fixed on the truck’s taillights ahead. It was moving fast down the coastal road, weaving through late-night traffic with surprising agility for its size.
Flynn checked his weapon and flashed me a grin that made heat pool low in my belly. “Admit it. You’re having fun.
“I’m working,” I shot back, but couldn’t quite keep the smile from my voice.
“Yeah, you are, and it’s so fucking hot.”
There was something undeniably seductive about the way he watched me work, like every calculated risk I took was foreplay. I swerved around a delivery van, gaining ground on the transport.
“Save the dirty talk for when we’re not being shot at,” I said, but my body disagreed, already humming with anticipation beneath my tactical gear.
“We’re not being shot at right now.”
The rear window exploded in a shower of glass, bullets punching into the upholstery.
“You had to jinx it,” I snapped, ducking lower in my seat as I swerved hard to avoid another spray of bullets.
A sleek black SUV had materialized behind us, its high beams flooding our interior with harsh white light. The passenger leaned out the window, rifle raised.
Flynn twisted in his seat, returning fire through our shattered rear window. “Two hostiles, heavily armed. Driver’s trying to get alongside us.”
“I see them.” I cut across two lanes, causing a chorus of angry horns. The transport truck was still ahead, moving with surprising speed. “We need to lose our tail without losing the truck.”
“Leave that to me.” Flynn reached into his tactical vest and pulled out what looked like a golf ball with a blinking red light.
“What’s that?”
“Another of Ozzy’s toys.” He opened the sunroof, wind whipping through the car. “Don’t tell him I borrowed this one, either. Take the next right.”
I yanked the wheel hard, tires screeching as we careened onto a narrow side street. The sedan followed, gaining ground now that we were off the main road.
“On my mark, spike the breaks,” Flynn said and pulled himself through the sunroof.
“Oh my God. Don’t get shot.”
“Would you be sad?”
“No, I would be pissed. You?—”
“Now!”
I slammed on the brakes. The Audi fishtailed, and in that moment of controlled chaos, Flynn hurled the device directly under our pursuers’ car. Three seconds later, an electromagnetic pulse fried their electronics. The sedan veered wildly off course and crashed into a row of parked scooters, its engine dead.
“Go!” Flynn shouted, dropping back into his seat.
I floored it, tires screaming as we shot back toward the main road. “We’re going to lose the truck.”
“Not with the way you drive, Siren. Gun it.”
Heat curled through me at the compliment and pushed the Audi harder, the engine protesting as we took the next turn too fast. The truck’s taillights glowed ahead, distant but not gone. Not yet.
Then a flash of movement in the rearview caught my eye.
A drone.
Shit.
“I really fucking hope that’s not Sentinel,” Flynn muttered, already leaning out the window.
I took my eyes off the road long enough to look at the drone. “No. It’s too small, but still not friendly,” I muttered, swerving hard as the drone dipped lower, its red targeting light sweeping across our windshield.
Flynn twisted in his seat, tracking the drone’s zigzagging approach with his SIG. He fired twice at the drone, missing both shots as it darted away. “Damn thing moves like a hummingbird on crack.”
“Third time’s the charm,” Flynn muttered, steadying his aim. The drone swooped in again, and this time when he fired, the bullet connected with a satisfying crack. The drone spiraled, smoke trailing from its ruptured body before it smashed into the pavement behind us.
He whooped. “Got the little bastard!”
“Nice shot,” I muttered, eyes locked on the truck ahead as we gained ground.
Flynn reloaded. “All those quarters at carnival shooting galleries finally paid off.”
I cut him a sideways glance. “Please tell me that’s not really where you learned to shoot.”
He just grinned.
A black SUV suddenly roared out from a side street, cutting across our path with screeching tires. I wrenched the wheel hard to avoid collision, but our bumpers clipped. The Audi fishtailed, tires fighting for purchase.
“Hold on!” I shouted, struggling to regain control as we spun. The car clipped a parked moped, sent it skidding into a flower stand, then slammed sideways into a row of metal barriers, the impact jarring my teeth. I straightened the car, but we’d damaged something vital in the crash. I couldn’t get it up to speed and smoke poured from under the hood.
Flynn leaned out the window, gun in hand. Whether or not he actually learned to shoot at the carnival, his accuracy was astonishing. I caught his reflection in the cracked side mirror—eyes hard, mouth grim. He dropped one of the shooters, but two more replaced him, hanging out the side of the SUV like they were invincible.
“Damn it, Flynn, they’re not giving up!”
He ducked back inside a second before bullets slammed into the metal frame where his head had been. “Persistent bastards. I’ll give them that. Can’t you go any faster?”
“No.” Even as the word left my mouth, the Audi coughed and shuddered to a stop. Through the spiderwebbed windshield, I watched the transport truck disappear around a bend. The SUV that hit us was already reversing, preparing for another strike.
“Time to improvise,” Flynn said, kicking his door open. “Out. Now.”
We scrambled from the wreckage as the SUV’s engine roared. Flynn grabbed my hand and pulled me into a narrow alley between two buildings just as the SUV plowed into the Audi, crushing it like it was made of tinfoil.
I scanned for the truck. It was still visible, turning at the intersection ahead. “We need another car. We can’t let it reach its destination.”
“There.” Flynn pointed to a motorcycle parked outside a café, keys dangling in the ignition. The owner had stepped inside, helmet hanging from the handlebar.
Flynn swung his leg over first and grabbed the helmet, jamming it onto my head. I climbed on behind him, my arms circling his waist as he brought the engine to life with a throaty roar.
“Hold on tight,” he called over his shoulder, gunning the throttle.
“You’re fucking nuts!” I shouted as he cut across a boulevard without checking traffic.
“And you’re loving it!”
Dammit, I was.
I clung to him, my thighs pressed against his, body molded to his back as we chased after the vanishing taillights of the truck. stuck to eh”Get us as close as possible.”
The motorcycle leapt forward, engine screaming as Flynn pushed it to its limits. My arms tightened around his waist, feeling the solid muscle beneath his tactical gear. He handled the bike like it was an extension of himself—fluid, responsive, fearless. We shot through a red light, narrowly avoiding a taxi that blared its horn. I could feel Flynn’s laughter vibrating through his back. The man was genuinely enjoying this—the chase, the danger, all of it.
We gained on the truck, its massive form looming larger as we closed the distance. I could make out details now: reinforced panels, no windows in the cargo area, military-grade tires designed to keep rolling even after being shot.
It turned sharply, barreling through an outdoor café and leaving chaos in its wake. We followed, barely dodging an overturned table as debris rained across the road. My breath came in ragged gasps. My pulse hadn’t slowed in ten minutes.
I laughed. Couldn’t help it. Wild, shaken, and electric. “Pull up alongside it!”
He spared a glance over his shoulder. “What’s the plan?”
“Boom!” I shouted, already reaching into my tactical belt for the compact grenade I’d stashed there.
Flynn shot me a look of disbelief as he accelerated, bringing us alongside the massive vehicle. “You’re carrying explosives? Since when?”
“Since always.” I pulled the safety pin with my teeth, holding the spoon in place. “Get me closer to his window.”
“I think I might love you,” Flynn said and swerved the bike dangerously close to the truck, our knees nearly brushing the metal panels.
The driver spotted us, his eyes widening in alarm. He jerked the wheel toward us, trying to force us off the road. Flynn anticipated the move, dropping back just enough to avoid being pancaked before accelerating again. We were neck and neck with the cab now, close enough that I could see the sweat beading on the driver’s forehead, the whites of his knuckles as he gripped the wheel.
I released the spoon, counted two heartbeats, and hurled the grenade through the driver’s open window.
“Go!” I screamed, thumping Flynn’s shoulder.
He didn’t need to be told twice. The motorcycle surged forward as he twisted the throttle to its maximum, putting distance between us and the truck. Three seconds later, a deafening boom split the night. The truck swerved violently, careening sideways before tipping onto its side with a screech of metal against asphalt.
“Nice throw.” Flynn cut the bike in a tight arc, circling back toward the crash site. Smoke billowed from the cab, flames licking around the edges of the shattered windshield.
I jumped off the bike and ran over to the truck. The cargo container door was ajar, one of the hinges blown clean off by the blast. Inside, black carbon-fiber crates were stacked floor to ceiling, secured with industrial strapping that had partially broken free in the crash. I had no idea if Sentinel was on board or not, but, either way, this shit wasn’t going to end up in Moreau’s auction.
“We need to move,” Flynn called, scanning the street. “Moreau’s men can’t be far behind.”
I climbed into the container, my boots crunching on broken glass. I pulled “Give me sixty seconds.”
Flynn hesitated. “What are you doing?”
“We can’t risk any of this tech making it to the auction.” I placed charges all along the interior of the truck, working quickly, muscle memory taking over. Thirty seconds in, I heard sirens in the distance.
“Siren, we’ve got incoming!” Flynn shouted.
I glanced over my shoulder to see headlights cutting through the smoke. Not the authorities. Not yet. The black vehicles were all Moreau’s security. I set the final charge and jumped out of the truck.
“How much C4 are you carrying?” Flynn asked as he took my hand and yanked me toward the bike.
“None now.”
“Yep, I’m definitely in love. You’re the perfect woman. Marry me.”
“You’re full of shit.” I rolled my eyes and swung onto the bike behind him. “Ninety-second timer,” I reminded. “Move!”
Flynn twisted the throttle, and the motorcycle shot forward just as the first SUV screeched to a halt beside the overturned truck.
We tore away from the scene, engine roaring as we wove through the labyrinth of Monte Carlo’s streets. Flynn took corners so tight my knee nearly scraped the pavement, but I trusted his control implicitly, my body moving with his like we’d been riding together for years.
Behind us, the night sky erupted in a blinding flash of orange and white. The concussive blast hit us seconds later, a wall of sound and pressure that rattled windows and car alarms for blocks. The motorcycle wobbled beneath us as Flynn fought to maintain control.
“Jesus Christ, Lyric,” he shouted over his shoulder, laughter in his voice. “What did you use? That was no standard-issue charge!”
“Modified thermite compound,” I called back, my arms tightening around his waist. “Burns hot enough to melt most circuitry. Whatever was in that truck is slag now.”
A few more blocks and we ditched the bike. I hit the ground running, lungs burning, adrenaline still roaring through my veins like fire. Flynn was right there with me. We made it three blocks before ducking into an underground parking garage, disappearing into the shadows just as a set of headlights swept past the entrance.
The only sounds were our harsh breathing and the distant drip of water echoing off concrete. Every footstep, every shift, bounced off the walls tenfold, amplifying everything. We ducked behind a support pillar. I tried to steady my breathing, but my hands were shaking. The adrenaline was ebbing and leaving a mess behind. I tried to cover it by checking my weapon.
Flynn noticed immediately. Of course he did. He caught my wrist before I could hide it. “Breathe, princess. You’re crashing.”
“I’m fine.”
“No you’re not.” He pulled me toward him by my wrist and his lips crashed down against mine, hot and desperate. The kiss was raw, consuming—all teeth and tongue and wild need. My back hit the concrete pillar as he pressed against me, his body hard and unyielding. I gasped into his mouth, my shaking hands finding purchase in his hair, pulling him closer even as my rational mind screamed to push him away.
I didn’t care. Not now. Not with the taste of danger still metallic on my tongue and my blood singing from our escape.
Flynn’s hands moved to my hips, pinning me against the pillar. One slid up to cradle my jaw, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss. The stubble on his chin scraped against my skin, a delicious burn that only heightened every sensation.
“God, you were amazing out there,” he murmured against my lips, voice rough with desire.
His words sent a fresh surge of heat through me, a different kind of adrenaline replacing the combat high. I arched against him, suddenly desperate for more contact.
“Flynn—” My voice caught as his mouth found the sensitive spot below my ear.
Footsteps echoed through the garage. Close. Fast.
We froze, then broke apart, instincts snapping into place. I nodded toward the far wall. Flynn nodded back. No words needed. Just motion and muscle memory. We split off, moving in opposite directions, flanking positions—classic pincer. Catch them in a crossfire.
I counted three sets of footsteps—two from the ramp, one circling wide. It was hard to pin them down with the way sound bounced through the space, but that worked in our favor too.
They were fast. We were faster.
I felt everything. Every breath, every shift of air. I was alive in a way that only combat ever made me feel.
Well, combat and Flynn’s mouth on me.
We paused at opposite corners. I signaled, three targets, armed.
Flynn nodded and gave me a look—pointed at me, then made a fist. You good?
I gave a single nod, just as they closed in.
The one on the right moved first, sweeping his weapon across the space ahead of him. He didn’t see me until it was too late. I surged out of the dark, grabbed his arm, and twisted hard. His wrist snapped with a sharp pop, and the gun hit the floor. He opened his mouth to shout, but I drove my knee into his gut and spun him around to use his body as a shield as I scanned for his buddies.
Flynn’s fight was louder, more brutal. He didn’t bother with finesse. Just force. I heard the sharp crack of impact, the wet snap of something breaking, and the thud of a body hitting the ground.
The second man barely had time to register what was happening before he adjusted his aim toward me. But Flynn was there, materializing from the shadows, a blur of controlled violence. He caught the gunman’s wrist, twisted, and slammed him against the concrete wall with enough force to crack plaster. The man’s weapon clattered to the ground as Flynn drove an elbow into his throat, cutting off any possible shout for backup.
My own opponent wasn’t done. He threw his head back, trying to catch my nose, but I shifted just enough that his skull grazed my cheek instead. I tightened my hold, forearm pressing against his windpipe as I kicked his legs out from under him. We went down together, my weight driving him face-first into the concrete.
“Stay down,” I hissed, pressing my knee between his shoulder blades.
He didn’t listen. They never do.
He bucked beneath me, stronger than I’d anticipated. I rolled with the motion, using his momentum against him. As he twisted, I caught his jaw with my elbow. His head snapped back, and when he fell this time, he stayed down.
Flynn’s man was already unconscious, slumped against the wall. Flynn stood over him, chest heaving, eyes wild with adrenaline and something darker, hungrier. He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked at me, a feral grin spreading across his face.
“I fucking love my job.” Then his gaze dropped to the man at my feet and he whistled. “Did you break his neck?”
I looked down and winced. The man’s neck bulged at an unnatural angle. “Wasn’t trying to. I just tapped him with my elbow.”
“Remind me never to piss you off. You fight like a demon.”
I scoffed but couldn’t stop the tiny flicker of pride that warmed my chest. “You’ve been pissing me off since the moment you crashed my op.”
“Not like that I haven’t.” He nudged one of the unconscious men with his boot, then bent to scoop up the guy’s weapon. “We can’t leave them alive. They’ve seen your face.”
My heart thudded hard. He was right. If they talked, the whole Elisa Deveraux persona would burn.
Flynn’s eyes met mine—steady, unreadable. “I’ll handle it.”
I didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. Just looked away.
Two silenced shots.
When I turned back, Flynn was already crossing the space between us. His hand curled around my arm. “You good?” he asked, voice low, rough with adrenaline.
No. But also yes. Because every nerve in my body was lit. Because I could still feel his hands on me, his mouth on me. Because I’d just killed a man and let him kill two more, and all I wanted right now was him.
I nodded.
His eyes searched mine for a beat too long before his fingers laced through mine. “Let’s move.”