Chapter 3
REMY
Isabella doesn't hesitate. That's the first thing I notice as she climbs through the window onto the fire escape. No freezing, no second-guessing, just movement. Hesitation gets you killed.
I follow her out, weapon in one hand, scanning the street below. Figures moving in the shadows near the building entrance. Several, probably more. Professional spacing. They're not cops—cops would have lit the place up with sirens and searchlights by now.
"Down," I tell her, keeping my voice low. "Fast but quiet. Don't stop until you reach ground level."
She nods and starts descending. The metal ladder creaks under her weight but holds. I give her a few rungs' head start, then follow. My ribs protest every movement. The burns on my shoulder pull tight where the bandages shift against my skin.
Halfway down, I smell it.
Petroleum. Accelerant. Sharp chemical tang that means someone's prepping for a fire.
"Faster," I say.
Isabella looks up at me, eyes wide in the darkness. Doesn't ask why. Just moves.
The words almost slip out—good girl—but I catch them. Too soon. Too revealing.
We're on an upper landing when the explosion hits.
Not the safe house. The building next door.
The blast wave rocks the fire escape, metal groaning as the structure sways.
Isabella grabs the railing, knuckles white.
I wrap an arm around her waist, pull her hard against me, use my body to shield her from the debris that rains down from above.
She fits against me perfectly, all that lean muscle yielding without hesitation.
The safe house windows blow out. Glass and flame. Heat washes over us even this far down.
"Keep moving," I say in her ear, my hand firm at her waist. "Now."
She moves. We hit the next landing, then another. Flames are spreading fast, jumping from the adjacent building to the safe house. This isn't containment. This is erasure.
One more landing to go. I catch Isabella's arm. "Stop. Let me go first."
She doesn't argue, just flattens herself against the railing to let me pass. I take the lead, descending quickly to ground level. Drop the last few feet, scan the alley, then turn back.
"Clear. Come on."
Isabella climbs down to the edge and jumps. She trusts me to catch her—doesn't brace or hesitate, just lets herself fall. I absorb her weight easily, set her on her feet but keep one hand at the small of her back. Scan the alley.
Clear. For now.
"This way." I grab her hand, lace our fingers together. Not a request. Her hand fits in mine perfectly, and she doesn't pull away. Doesn't even hesitate.
We need distance and we need it fast. Within minutes, emergency services will flood this area, and I don't want to be anywhere near here when they start asking questions.
We hit the street running. I keep us moving through the crowd that's already gathering to watch the fire. People with phones out, filming. Perfect. We're just two more gawkers caught up in the chaos.
Multiple blocks pass, my boots hitting pavement in steady rhythm, Isabella's lighter footfalls matching my pace.
I take us through side streets, keeping to the shadows where streetlights don't reach.
She keeps pace without complaint, her hand warm in mine, her messenger bag bouncing against her hip.
The oversized sweater and leggings aren't ideal for running, but the slip-on sneakers were a smart choice.
Cerberus safe houses are stocked for quick escapes.
When I'm satisfied we've got enough distance, I pull her into a doorway.
Old office building, locked for the night.
I position her against the wall, cage her in with my body while I assess our surroundings.
She smells like smoke and adrenaline underneath, something floral.
Her pulse is visible at her throat, fast but steady.
Isabella is breathing hard but not panicking, the messenger bag still clutched against her side. She's watching me, waiting for direction. Panic makes people sloppy, and I need her sharp.
"What just happened?" she asks.
"Someone tried to kill us."
"I gathered that much." There's an edge to her voice. Anger, not fear. "Who?"
"Working on it." I pull out my phone, still close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. Nothing from Fitz yet, but he'll be tracking the news feeds. An explosion in central Prague isn't exactly subtle.
I run through the variables. We found a tracker in Isabella's bag that would have led them to the safe house, but that doesn't explain the timing. We destroyed it, but they were already in position. Which means they knew where we'd be before the tracker led them there.
They had eyes on the warehouse and knew what it was.
Either option is bad.
"The explosion." Isabella's still catching her breath, her chest rising and falling. "The building next door, not the safe house. Why?"
I look at her, really look at her. Even disheveled and covered in soot, she's sharp. A chemist, analytical. Seeing patterns where most people just see chaos.
"Lazarev's signature," I say. "He doesn't go for the direct hit. Wants you to know it's coming. Wants you to run."
"And then?"
"Then he takes you down while you're moving. Easier target, less cover." The street is still clear. "He miscalculated tonight. We moved faster than he expected."
"This Lazarev." She crosses her arms, a subtle barrier between us. I let her have it. "You said he's after you, not me. So why—"
"Because you're with me. That makes you leverage." I meet her eyes, hold them. "And Lazarev doesn't do things halfway. If he can't get to me directly, he'll burn everything around me until I'm exposed."
"Charming."
"Effective."
She studies me for a long moment. "You've dealt with him before."
Not a question. A statement. I could deflect, but she's earned at least part of the truth.
"We crossed paths in Afghanistan," I say. "Both contractors, different companies. But the real problem started in Yemen. Joint operation went sideways. People died. He blamed me."
"Were you to blame?"
"Partially." No point lying about it. "I made a call. The right call tactically, wrong call for the people who didn't make it out."
"And he's been hunting you since then?"
"On and off. Thought the vendetta had cooled." My phone buzzes—Fitz. "Apparently not."
I can still see Lazarev's face that day in Sana'a.
The way his jaw locked when I gave the order to move out, leaving his team pinned down.
That cold fury in his eyes when we extracted what was left of them.
He'd promised then he'd return the favor someday.
Make me watch something burn that I couldn't save.
I answer, keep my voice low. "Yeah."
"Saw the news." Fitz's voice is clipped, all business. "You two clear?"
"For now. Safe house is burned. Literally."
"Lazarev?"
"Signature matches. He's here, and he's not playing around."
Silence on the other end. Then: "He's been off grid for months. No movement, no chatter. This is the first confirmation we've had that he's even alive."
"Well, he's alive and he's pissed." I glance at Isabella; make sure she's still with me. She is, her eyes scanning the crowd like I taught her without realizing it. "What's the play?"
"You tell me. You're the one on the ground."
I think it through. Cerberus has resources, contacts, safe houses across Europe. But if Lazarev's tracking our operations, those resources become liabilities.
"I'm going dark," I say. "Limited contact, no safe house network. I'll check in every couple days unless something breaks."
"That's a risk."
"Less risk than staying connected if he's got surveillance on us." I turn down a side street, heading toward the train station. "Isabella's the target for one group, I'm a target for Lazarev. Until we figure out how they're coordinating, we move light and we move fast."
"What do you need?"
"Clean phone, cash, transport documents. Can you drop a package?"
"Where?"
I scan the area, think about safe drop points. "Praha hlavní nádra?í. Main train station. Locker 247. Couple hours."
"Done. What else?"
"Run analysis on the accelerant from tonight's fire. See if it matches Lazarev's previous work. And pull everything you've got on his movements for the last year. If he's been tracking me, there's a pattern."
"On it." Fitz pauses. "Watch yourself, Remy. Lazarev's good, but he's also unstable. That combination makes him dangerous in ways you can't predict."
"I know."
"Do you? Because last time you two tangled, half a city block ended up as collateral damage."
"That was different."
"Was it?"
I end the call before he can push further.
Fitz means well, and he knows the field better than most—former SAS, decades of operations under his belt.
But he's thinking like a commander now, playing the long game.
I'm playing survival, and the calculations are different when you're the one on the ground with a target on your back.
Isabella is watching me when I pocket the phone. "Everything okay?"
"We've got a package incoming. Couple hours, train station."
"And then?"
"Then we disappear for a while."
She doesn't ask for details. Just keeps walking. We're close to the station now. I can see the lights, the people moving in and out. Perfect cover.
We blend into the crowd at the entrance.
I buy two tickets for Vienna—not because we're going to Vienna, but because tickets create a trail.
Anyone tracking us will see the purchase, assume that's our destination.
We'll board, then jump off at the first stop and double back. Old trick, but it works.
The station is busy even at this hour. Night trains, late arrivals, early departures. I find a bench with sight lines to the entrances, position Isabella on my left. She sits without being told, settles exactly where I want her.
She's learning.
"Couple hours is a long time to sit here," she says.
"We're not sitting. We're watching."
"For what?"