CHAPTER 12
Callum
The interstate stretches out ahead of us, a long, gray ribbon cutting through the dense forests of upstate New York.
I check the rearview mirror. Empty.
I check the side mirrors. Empty.
Then, I look at the passenger seat.
Gemma is asleep. The local anesthetic I injected into her side is doing its job, masking the sharp, tearing pain of the laceration, but her body is still fighting the trauma.
She is curled onto her right side, facing me, her knees pulled up slightly beneath the heavy black tactical jacket I draped over her.
Her face is pale, entirely stripped of the chaotic, sarcastic energy she uses as a shield. In sleep, she looks incredibly fragile. The dark smudges of exhaustion under her eyes are stark against her skin.
She shifts slightly, a soft, distressed sound escaping her lips. Her left hand twitches, moving instinctively toward her injured ribs.
I take my right hand off the steering wheel and reach across the wide center console.
I don't touch the wound. I catch her hand before it can press against the stitches. My fingers wrap around her wrist, my thumb resting over her pulse point. It’s beating steadily.
She sighs, the tension in her brow smoothing out, and her hand relaxes in my grip.
I leave my hand exactly where it is.
It is a blatant violation of my own operational rules. Driving a three-ton armored vehicle requires both hands. Maintaining physical contact with an asset during transport breeds unnecessary emotional attachment.
I know the rules. I wrote half of them.
But as I hold her wrist, feeling the slow, rhythmic beat of her heart against my thumb, I finally admit the truth I have been avoiding since the moment I walked into her apartment.
The rules no longer apply.
I look back at the road. The sun is climbing higher, burning off the morning mist.
"I looked at you, and I realized that a world without you in it was entirely unacceptable."
The memory of my own confession echoes in the quiet cabin of the SUV.
I didn't plan to say it. I have spent eight years burying every human impulse under layers of tactical logic and professional detachment.
I am a machine built by the military and refined by the criminal underworld.
Machines do not make impulsive, emotionally driven decisions.
But when she looked at me, her eyes wide with pain and betrayal, asking why I didn't just shoot her and walk away... the truth simply tore its way out of my throat.
She is a hacker. She deals in logic, code, and predictable algorithms. She expects the world to make sense.
I am the variable she cannot calculate.
I gently release her wrist, returning my hand to the steering wheel as a semi-truck passes us in the opposite lane. The rush of air rocks the heavy SUV slightly.
We have four hours left until we reach the drop point.
The location isn't a safe house. It isn't owned by the syndicate, and it isn't listed under any of my aliases. It’s a ghost property—a place that technically does not exist on any digital registry.
It is the only place I can think of where Gemma can safely connect to a hardwired network without triggering a trace.
I reach toward the dashboard and turn on the radio, keeping the volume incredibly low. The local news station is broadcasting the morning traffic report.
I listen for any mention of an explosion in the Catskills. Nothing.
The syndicate is efficient. They will have already dispatched a cleanup crew to the property to remove the bodies and cover the evidence of the firefight. They don't want local law enforcement asking questions about a burned-out glass house and five dead mercenaries.
They will try to handle this internally.
Which means they will be tracking this vehicle.
I glance at the GPS navigation screen built into the dashboard. It’s dark. The first thing I did when we got into the SUV was physically rip the tracking module out from under the steering column and crush it. But the vehicle still has license plates. It still has an identifiable profile.
I need to ditch it.
I check the fuel gauge. We have just under half a tank. Enough to get us out of the immediate search grid, but not enough to reach the final destination.
"Callum."
Her voice is a raspy, sleep-heavy whisper.
I look over. Gemma’s eyes are open, blinking slowly against the sunlight streaming through the windshield. She doesn't sit up. She just watches me from beneath the collar of the tactical jacket.
"I’m here," I say.
She takes a slow, careful breath, testing the limits of her injured ribs. She winces slightly, but the pain doesn't seem to overwhelm her.
"Are we there yet?" she asks, her voice dry.
"No. We have several hours." I reach into the cup holder, pick up a half-empty bottle of water I took from the safe house, and hold it out to her. "Drink."
She pushes herself up into a sitting position, moving with agonizing slowness. She takes the bottle, her fingers brushing against mine. Her skin is warmer now. The shock is wearing off.
She drinks deeply, then caps the bottle and sets it back in the console.
She looks out the window at the passing trees. "We’re going north."
"Yes."
"Towards Canada?"
"Toward the border," I correct. "But we are not crossing it."
She turns her head to look at me. The sleep is completely gone from her eyes now, replaced by the sharp, analytical focus that makes her so dangerous behind a keyboard.
"You said you knew a place," she says. "A place where I can drain their accounts."
"I do."
"Who owns it?"
"I do," I reply, keeping my eyes on the road.
She frowns, shifting slightly in the seat. "You said the syndicate knows all your aliases. If you own it, they can find it."
"They know the aliases I use for business," I clarify. "They do not know this one. This property was purchased through a blind trust, using funds that never touched the digital banking system. It is entirely off the grid."
"A cabin in the woods?" she asks, a faint trace of her usual sarcasm returning. "Are we back to the horror movie aesthetic?"
"It’s an old farmhouse. And it has a secure, subterranean fiber-optic line."
She stares at me for a long moment. "Why does an old farmhouse have a subterranean fiber-optic line?"
"Because I installed it."
"For what? In case you wanted to play high-speed video games while hiding from the cartel?"
I don't smile, but the tight, heavy feeling in my chest eases a fraction. Her sarcasm is a sign of life. It means her brain is functioning, pushing past the trauma of the morning.
"It was designed as a final fallback point," I explain. "A place to disappear if a contract went wrong."
"Like this one."
"Exactly like this one."
She looks down at the black encrypted drive sitting in the center console between us. It looks entirely harmless—just a small piece of plastic and metal. But it holds the power to dismantle an empire.
"When I drain the accounts," she says quietly, "where does the money go?"
"I have a sequence of ghost accounts set up in offshore havens," I tell her. "The funds will be broken down into micro-transactions, bounced through a dozen different servers, and deposited into accounts that require physical biometric keys to access."
"So, we’re stealing it."
"We are reallocating it."
She lets out a short, breathy laugh that ends in a sharp wince. She presses her hand against her side. "Right. Reallocating. That sounds much more legal."
"It isn't legal, Gemma. None of this is legal.
" I glance at her, ensuring she understands the gravity of the situation.
"The moment you initiate that transfer, you are committing one of the largest digital thefts in history.
The syndicate will lose their capital, but they will know exactly who took it. "
"They already want to kill me," she points out, her chin lifting defiantly. "I might as well make them poor while they try."
I look back at the road, a dark, genuine sense of pride flaring in my chest.
She isn't a trained operative. She has no combat experience. She spent her life hiding behind a screen. But sitting in the passenger seat of a stolen car, bleeding from a shrapnel wound, she is entirely ready to go to war.
"We need to ditch the SUV," I say, changing the subject back to logistics.
"Why? It’s armored. It has heated seats."
"It also has a highly recognizable profile, and the syndicate knows we took it." I check the GPS again. "There is a long-term parking garage at a regional airport thirty miles from here. We will leave the SUV there and acquire a new vehicle."
"Acquire," she repeats dryly. "You mean steal."
"I mean acquire."
We drive in silence for another twenty minutes. The dense forest begins to thin out, replaced by the sprawling, gray infrastructure of a regional transit hub. Small towns, strip malls, and gas stations appear along the highway.
I take the exit for the airport.
It isn't a major international hub, just a small regional airfield used for domestic flights and private charters. The long-term parking structure is a massive, multi-level concrete building located a half-mile from the main terminal.
I pull up to the automated ticket gate. I don't roll the window down. I press the button, take the printed ticket, and the wooden arm swings up.
I drive the heavy Suburban up the concrete ramps, bypassing the crowded lower levels. I want the roof.
The top level of the parking structure is entirely exposed to the sky and mostly empty. There are only a few cars parked near the elevator banks.
I drive to the far corner, parking the SUV between a concrete pillar and a dusty minivan. It’s out of the direct line of sight from the stairwell.
I kill the engine.
"Can you walk?" I ask, looking over at Gemma.
She unbuckles her seatbelt, moving slowly. "I think so. The numbing stuff is still working, mostly. It just feels... tight."
"Keep the jacket closed. We need to look like normal travelers."