Chapter 3 #2
"Patterns. Faces that repeat. Anyone paying too much attention to people who don't matter." I lean back, stretch my legs out. The ribs ache but the pain is manageable. "You see the woman in the red coat?"
Isabella's eyes flick to the left. "By the kiosk?"
"Been there a while. Hasn't bought anything, hasn't moved. Either she's waiting for someone who's late, or she's watching the crowd."
"Could be both."
"It could be." I keep my attention on the woman without staring. "But if she's still there in another few minutes and still hasn't moved, we relocate."
Isabella settles in, mimicking my posture. Casual, relaxed, but alert. I notice the small adjustments—the way she positions her feet flat like mine, ready to move, the slight lean back that matches my angle. She's reading me, adapting to me.
I like it more than I should.
After a while, the woman in the red coat finally moves—meets someone, embraces them, walks away arm in arm. Civilian. Not a threat.
I relax slightly. Let my mind work through the problem.
Lazarev showing up in Prague isn't random. He doesn't do random. Every move he makes is calculated, personal. If he's here, it's because he knew I'd be here.
Which means he's got intel. Either on Cerberus operations, or on me specifically.
The question is how deep that intel goes.
If it's just surveillance, we can work around it. Cerberus is solid—Fitz vets every operative personally, runs security tighter than any agency I've worked with. No leaks, no moles. Which means Lazarev's intel is coming from somewhere else.
More likely it's tech. Lazarev's always been solid with electronics, surveillance equipment. He could have tagged me at some point, planted something I haven't found yet.
The weapon's clean—stripped and reassembled in Prague. The phone's a burner. Fitz gave me one in Sarajevo and I’ve swapped twice since then. Clothes were all changed before they hit the safe house. Which leaves the boots.
My boots.
I've had these Lucchese boots for years. Custom-made in El Paso, broken in on a dozen operations. Comfortable, reliable. And Lazarev knows I wear them. Commented on them once in Kandahar, said a man who spends that much on boots is either very confident or very stupid.
"Stay here," I tell Isabella, my hand curling around her knee briefly. A touch, a claim. "Don't move unless you have to."
"What—"
I'm already walking to the restroom. Inside, I lock the door of a stall and examine the boots. The heels first—classic hiding spot. Nothing. Then the soles, running my fingers along the edges where leather meets rubber.
There. Left boot, inside edge. Something small and hard under the material.
I pull out my knife, carefully pry the rubber away. A tracker, no bigger than a watch battery. Military-grade, the kind that runs for months on a single charge.
Lazarev didn't just know I was in Prague. He's known everywhere I've been for God knows how long.
I crush the tracker under my heel, flush the pieces, and head back out.
Isabella looks up when I return. "Problem?"
"He was tracking me." I sit down, keep my voice even. "A boot tracker. Military-grade. He's known everywhere I've been for months."
She's quiet, working through it. "So the tracker in my bag led them to the safe house—"
"And this one led Lazarev." I sit down, keep my voice even. "Two different threats. Two different trackers. The Iron Choir hunting you, Lazarev hunting me. We destroyed yours, but mine's still been active."
"How long?"
"No way of knowing—days? Weeks? Months? No way to know."
"That's..." She stops, shakes her head. "That's dedication."
"That's obsession." Over an hour until the package drop. "Lazarev doesn't let things go. Once you're on his list, you stay there."
"And I'm on his list now because I'm with you."
"Unfortunately."
A long silence. Then: "You could leave me somewhere safe. Let Cerberus handle my situation while you deal with yours."
"No."
"That wasn't a question. I'm saying you have the option—"
"And I'm saying no." I look at her directly, let her see exactly how serious I am. "You're my assignment. I don't leave assignments unfinished."
"Even if it makes you a bigger target?"
"Especially then." I lean in slightly, close enough that she has to hold my gaze or look away. She doesn't look away. "You're mine to protect. That doesn't change because things get complicated."
Something shifts in her expression. Her breath catches—just slightly, but I notice. Recognition, maybe. Or awareness of exactly what I just claimed.
She holds my gaze, searching for something. I don't know what she finds, but she nods slowly.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"I trust you." She says it simply, like it's a fact. "You went back into a burning building for my research. You got me out of that safe house before the explosion hit. You've had multiple chances to dump me somewhere and you haven't. So okay. I trust you."
Something tightens in my throat. Not comfortable. Not entirely unwelcome either.
"Don't make it a habit," I say.
"What, trusting you?"
"Trusting anyone."
She almost smiles. "Noted."
The hour passes. I watch the crowd, track patterns, and catalog exits. Isabella sits beside me in silence. Not fidgeting, not asking questions. Just present. Waiting.
When the time comes, I stand. "Stay close. If I tell you to run, you run. Don't look back, don't wait for me. There's a hostel a few blocks east, cash only, no questions. You hole up there until I contact you."
"You really think Lazarev's smart enough to stake out a dead drop?"
"Yes, but my having a tracker in my boot makes it a certainty."
We move through the station toward the lockers. I keep Isabella on my right this time, my hand at the small of her back. Guiding. Possessive. Harder for anyone to grab her from that position.
Locker 247 is in the back corner. Out of the main traffic flow, limited sight lines. Fitz knows his tradecraft.
I punch in the code he would have used, pull open the locker. Inside: a phone, a thick envelope of euros, and two sets of identity documents. Monaco passports, good quality forgeries. I pocket everything, close the locker.
"Now what?" Isabella asks.
"Now we get on that train to Vienna."
"I thought that was a decoy."
"It was. Now it's not."
Her lips quirk. "You're very confusing."
"I'm very alive."
I guide her toward the platform. The Vienna train is boarding soon. Plenty of time.
We're halfway there when I see him.
Not Lazarev. One of his crew. Tall guy, Slavic features, scar through his left eyebrow. I remember him from Yemen. An explosives expert, solid with det cord and timers.
He's scanning the crowd. Hasn't seen us yet.
I shift direction, my hand firm at Isabella's back as I steer her toward the opposite platform. "Change of plans."
"What—"
"Don't look back. Just walk."
She does. Trusts me without question.
We're almost to the opposite platform when Isabella speaks, her voice low. "The man with the scar. He just turned toward the Vienna platform. We would have walked right into him."
I glance at her. She's not looking back, eyes forward, but she caught it. Processed the threat without me spelling it out.
Maybe she's more than just learning.
The train on this platform is headed to Budapest. Not ideal, but better than being cornered on the Vienna platform.
We board just as the doors are closing. I find us seats in the middle car, away from the exits. I keep Isabella by the window, positioning myself on the aisle where I can see both directions. She sets her messenger bag on her lap, protective.
The train pulls out of the station.
Isabella looks at me. "Are we actually going to Budapest?"
"For now."
"And then?"
I lean back, let the adrenaline fade.
"Then we see how fast you can learn to jump rooftops," I say.
She blinks. "I'm sorry, what?"
I close my eyes, feel the train's rhythm beneath us. "If Lazarev's tracking us this close, we're going to need to get creative with our exits."
"Rooftops."
"Among other things."
"You're insane."
Maybe. But insanity has kept me alive this long.
The train speeds through the night, carrying us away from Prague, away from Lazarev's fire.
My ribs are on fire. Every breath pulls at the burns on my shoulder. I need sleep, need time for my body to catch up with what I'm asking of it.
But the petroleum smell is still in my nose. Lazarev's pattern is burned into my head just like Yemen, just like every other time I've tried to put him behind me.
Isabella's breathing has evened out beside me. She's asleep or pretending to be.
Either way, she's vulnerable. Trusting me to keep watch.
My hand moves to her knee—just rests there. A reminder that I'm here. A claim that she's mine to protect.
I don't move it.
I’ll need to sleep eventually, but not now. Not while Lazarev's crew is still in Prague, still hunting.
For now, I stay awake. Keep my hand on her knee. Watch the darkness outside the window and the reflections of everyone in our car.
And try not to think about how easily she fits under my palm.