Chapter 32 Aaron
Aaron
Location: Temporary Safehouse — Outside Lisbon
Time: Morning
The knock is wrong.
Not loud.
Not aggressive.
Not tactical.
Measured.
Controlled.
Official.
Three even taps.
My eyes are open before the second one lands.
I’m already moving.
Already armed.
Already placing myself between the door—
And Lark.
Ronan’s voice cuts in, tight. “We’ve got movement. Multiple vehicles. They just came online.”
“What kind of movement?” I ask.
A pause.
Then—
“…Police.”
My jaw tightens.
“How many?”
“Enough,” he says, “to make this political.”
Of course they did.
The knock comes again.
Same rhythm.
Same control.
A voice follows—calm, amplified just enough to carry through the door.
“Dr. Lark London? This is the Polícia Judiciária. We have a warrant for your arrest.”
Behind me—
I feel her go still.
Not panicked.
Not frozen.
Still.
Like she already understands what this means.
“On what charge?” I call out.
“Conspiracy. Data crimes. Interference with international investigations. You are to open the door immediately.”
Ronan exhales sharply in my ear. “It’s real. Warrants just went live across three jurisdictions.”
“They’re fast,” I mutter.
“They were ready,” he replies.
Yeah.
They didn’t just plan the hit.
They planned the aftermath.
I hear movement outside now.
Boots.
Positions being taken.
This isn’t a conversation.
This is containment.
Lark steps closer.
I turn immediately.
“No.”
The word comes out low.
Final.
“They’ll come in eventually,” she says quietly. “And if you resist, this becomes something else.”
“They’re not taking you.”
“They already are,” she replies. “Just with paper instead of guns.”
That lands harder than anything else.
Because she’s right.
Another knock.
Harder this time.
Time’s up.
“Aaron,” she says, reaching for my arm.
Her fingers are warm.
Steady.
Grounding.
“If I run, you confirm everything they’re saying.”
I hate that.
I hate that she’s right.
I hate that this isn’t something I can shoot.
“I can disappear you,” I say. “Right now.”
I mean it.
I can.
“And then what?” she asks softly.
Her eyes hold mine.
Clear.
Certain.
“I live as proof of their story?”
Silence.
Because that—
That’s exactly what would happen.
“This is the battlefield now,” she says.
Not fear.
Not surrender.
Strategy.
The lock shifts.
Metal turning.
“They have a master key,” Ronan says quietly. “This is clean.”
Of course it is.
They planned everything.
Lark steps in front of me.
Between me and the door.
Between me and the fight.
“I’ll go,” she says.
My chest tightens.
“But you’re not leaving me.”
I stare at her.
“I don’t do prison visits.”
She holds my gaze.
There’s something new there now.
Not uncertainty.
Not distance.
Trust.
“You’re not visiting,” she says.
And before I can stop her—
Before I can argue—
Before I can choose anything else—
She opens the door.