Chapter 2
TWO
Sawyer
I double-tap the man with a bead on Savannah, hitting his center of mass. The suppressed shots are barely audible over the chaos.
He drops, and suddenly everyone's reacting. One hostile spins toward me, and I put two in his chest, one in his head.
The shots group perfectly—a triangle pattern that drops him instantly. Training takes over, and I'm already shifting aim to the next target, but the third grabs Savannah before I can engage, arm around her throat, using her as a shield.
"Federal agent!" he shouts. "Drop your weapon!"
He's got good positioning—her body blocks most of his center of mass, and he's smart enough to keep his head moving, not giving me a clean headshot. His finger is on the trigger, not in the guard—he's ready to fire.
The laptop taped to her chest makes her torso rigid, harder for her to bend or twist out of his grip.
But I watch her eyes as she processes the situation. No panic, just calculation.
She's testing his stance, the way his weight is distributed. Her hand goes to her ear—casual, like she's in pain. She's thinking, planning, about to do something that's either brilliant or going to get her killed.
Her gaze meets mine across the destroyed apartment. Hazel in the photos, but green in this light, with gold flecks that catch the emergency lighting.
Instead of panic, I see calculation. She goes limp, playing unconscious, while palming something from her ear.
An earring?
The hostile relaxes his grip slightly, thinking she's out.
She drives the earring post into his carotid artery.
The movement is precise—she knows exactly where the artery runs, precisely how much force is needed. The pearl earring disappears into his neck, and for a moment, nothing happens.
Then the blood comes, pulsing with his heartbeat, spraying in arterial spurts that paint the wall behind them. His hands go to his throat, weapon forgotten, and she spins away from him with a dancer's grace.
He's still standing, eyes wide with shock, when I put a round in his head to finish him.
A mercy, really.
Carotid wounds are a bad way to go—conscious for too long, aware you're dying but unable to stop it.
A sudden silence fills the apartment except for our breathing.
Somewhere in the building, a baby is crying. A car alarm goes off outside, probably triggered by the violence. The apartment smells like blood and cordite and the acidic scent of homemade explosives.
One of the attackers is still alive, the one she set on fire, moaning softly from behind the couch. I move over and zip-tie his hands—he'll live, but he's out of the fight.
She stands slowly, the laptop still taped to her body, kitchen knife in one hand, blood running down the other where she gripped the earring too hard. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, but her eyes are steady on mine.
"You're not FBI." Her accent is pure Georgia honey over steel. Not an observation—a statement.
"Guardian HRS. I'm here to get you out." I scan the apartment, checking for additional threats. "Are you injured?"
She looks down at herself, seeming surprised by the blood.
"None of this is mine." Her hand shakes as she sets down the knife, the first sign of reaction. "They killed three agents in the stairwell."
"I saw them." I move closer, noting how she tracks my movement, still ready to fight or run. Smart. "We need to leave. Now. More will be coming."
"I can't—" She gestures to the laptop taped to her body. "This has to stay with me. It's the only proof of what they're planning."
I pull out my knife, and she tenses until she realizes I'm cutting the duct tape, not threatening her. My hands work carefully around the computer, trying not to touch her, but proximity is unavoidable. She smells like fear-sweat and jasmine perfume, an oddly intoxicating combination.
"Ninety-six hours." Her voice is urgent. "They're going to poison the water supply in LA. Tens of thousands will die."
The laptop comes free, and she clutches it against her chest. This close, I can see the exhaustion beneath the adrenaline—dark circles, the hollow of too many missed meals, the particular worn look of someone who's been running on empty.
"Who's 'they'?"
"The Prometheus Network. Domestic terror cell. My partner—" Her voice catches. "My former FBI partner is part of it. He tried to kill me three nights ago."
Sirens wail in the distance, getting closer. I check the window—more black SUVs are arriving.
"We're leaving. Can you run?"
She nods, already moving toward her bedroom. "I need ten seconds."
I follow, watch her grab a messenger bag, and shove the laptop inside, along with a handful of USB drives from a hidden panel behind her dresser. She's planned for this, prepared for running.
"How do we get out?" She slings the bag across her body. "They'll have the stairwells covered."
I move to her bedroom window and check the distance to the adjacent building. "We go out, not down. You afraid of heights?"
Her face pales. "Terrified."
"Then don't look down."
I pull the rappelling gear from my pack and secure the anchor to the reinforced window frame. When I turn back, she’s standing there, wide-eyed, breath hitching. The nylon harness dangles from my hands like a promise.
I step in close—closer than I should.
My chest brushes her shoulder as I loop the strap around her waist. She smells like rain-soaked ash and wildflowers crushed under boot soles. My knuckles graze the curve of her hip as I thread the buckle through.
Her breath catches, a sharp sound swallowed by the hum of the storm outside.
“Hold still.” My voice comes out lower than I intend. Rough.
Her pulse flutters in her throat as I cinch the strap tight, the movement dragging her hips flush against mine. Heat sparks in the narrow space between us, electric and dangerous.
She looks up, lips parted. Fear and adrenaline blur together in her eyes—and something else, something that burns hotter than the fire waiting beyond the window.
"I can't—" She looks out the window and immediately steps back. "I can't do this."
Footsteps thunder in the hallway. Multiple hostiles, moving fast.
I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me instead of the drop. "Hey. Eyes on me. What's your name?"
"Savi. Everyone calls me Savi."
"Okay, Savannah. I'm Sawyer. I'm going to get you out of this, but I need you to trust me for the next thirty seconds. Can you do that?"
She nods, jaw set with determination that probably gets her through most things. Good. She’ll need it.
I clip her harness to mine, chest to chest, her arms around my neck. "Close your eyes. Hold on to me. Don't let go."
The door explodes inward. No time for gentle.
I wrap one arm around her waist, grip the rope with my other hand, and step backward out the window.
She doesn't scream, but her arms tighten enough to choke me, her face buried against my throat.
We drop fast, a controlled fall, eight stories in six seconds. Her body pressed against mine, every curve, every tremor, the rabbit-quick beat of her heart against my chest.
We hit the alley hard, and I take the impact on my legs, keeping her upright. "You can open your eyes now."
She pulls back slightly, and we're face to face, inches apart. Her pupils are blown wide, breath coming in pants that ghost across my mouth. Time stops for one impossible second, the world narrowing to green-gold eyes and parted lips.
Gunfire erupts from above, shattering the moment.
I grab her hand, and we run.
A motorcycle catches my eye—a matte-black Triumph parked half in shadow, keys nowhere in sight but tempting as sin.
Agile and quick. Exactly what we need.
I crouch beside it, fingers working quickly and sure beneath the console.
Wires spark, the engine growls to life, low and rough like a warning.
She doesn’t ask what I’m doing. Just steps close, eyes steady on mine. When I swing a leg over, she climbs on behind me without a word, her thighs bracketing my hips, palms flattening against my stomach.
The engine vibrates through both of us as I gun the throttle. Her body presses tighter, chest to my back, breath hot against my neck. I don’t look back when we tear down the street—because the sound of her heartbeat against my spine tells me she’s already all in.
"Hold tight." I kick the engine to life.
"Not letting go," she says against my shoulder blade, and something about the way she says it makes my chest tight.
I weave through late-night traffic. Market Street is empty enough to open up the throttle, the Triumph responding like a living thing. Savannah's weight shifts perfectly with mine as I lean into a turn, her body pressed so tight against mine I can feel her heartbeat through my tactical vest.
The SUVs are back there, headlights in the mirrors, but they're heavy and slow compared to the bike.
I cut through an alley between two restaurants, with trash bins on both sides, leaving barely enough room. Savannah tucks her head against my shoulder, making us smaller. Metal scrapes—my boot catching a bin—but we're through. The lead SUV tries to follow, but crashes as it wedges between the bins.
She's plastered against my back, moving with me through turns, and I'm hyperaware of every point of contact—her thighs pressed to mine, her breasts against my shoulder blades, her hands fisted in my shirt.
Red and blue lights flash ahead—SFPD checkpoint, probably watching for us.
I cut hard right into Chinatown, threading between delivery trucks and late-night vendors.
A night market is still active despite the hour, vendors selling everything from live fish to knock-off electronics.
I weave between the stalls, sending a table of counterfeit purses flying.
The vendor shouts in Cantonese—cursing my entire bloodline, probably. Paper lanterns strung overhead tear as the bike passes underneath, falling like burning snow.
An SUV tries to follow our path but clips a seafood stand. Tanks of live crabs explode across the street, claws clicking on asphalt as they make their escape. The second SUV has to brake hard to avoid the mess, buying us seconds.
Grant Avenue is narrower here, more like an alley than a street.
I thread between a delivery truck and a parked car with inches to spare, Savannah's grip tightening as her knee nearly clips the side mirror.
She doesn't scream, doesn't distract, just buries her face against my back and trusts me to get us through.
Behind us, engines roar—the SUVs have found us.
"Company," she says in my ear, and I feel her shift to look back. "Three vehicles, gaining."
I accelerate through a narrow alley, sparks flying as the handlebars clip brick walls. We burst out onto Grant Avenue, and I see our problem—another checkpoint ahead, boxing us in.
"Building at two o'clock," she says. "Parking garage, no barrier."
She's right. I aim for the entrance, blow past the ticket booth, tires screaming on polished concrete as we spiral up. The SUVs follow, their bulk slowing them on the tight turns.
Top level—open air, view of the city, and a twelve-foot gap to the next building's garage.
"Oh God." She sees what I'm planning. "No, no, no—"
"Trust me."
I hit the ramp at full throttle. We're airborne, her scream in my ear, the city spread below us like a promise of death if I've miscalculated. The landing rushes up, and we hit hard, back tire skidding, but we're across.
I brake hard, spinning the bike to a stop.
She's shaking against me, but when I look back, she's grinning—wild and fierce and beautiful.
"You're insane," she breathes.
"You're alive," I counter.
She kisses me.
It's sudden, desperate, her hands fisting in my hair as she claims my mouth. She tastes like adrenaline and coffee, and I'm kissing her back before my brain catches up, one hand tangled in her hair, the other pulling her closer.
Heat explodes between us, inappropriate and perfect, and absolutely the wrong time.
“Sorry. I just—adrenaline, and you—” She pulls back, breathing hard.
"Later," I promise, and mean it. Heat coils low in my belly despite everything.
Her lips are swollen from the kiss, and there's a wildness in her eyes that has nothing to do with the jump we just survived. My hand is still tangled in her hair, and I have to force myself to let go. The taste of her lingers—coffee and adrenaline and something sweet underneath, like brown sugar.
“Later.” She nods, eyes still on my mouth.
I force myself to focus, checking for pursuit. The SUVs can’t make the jump—but they don’t need to. Sirens converge on the other building. We have minutes at most.
"Where to?" She settles back against me. The jump, or the kiss, did something to her because she's not shaking anymore.
"Extraction point. Then we figure out how to stop your Prometheus Network."
"Our," she corrects. "Our Prometheus Network. You're in this now."
I start the bike and head for the extraction point. "Yeah, I figured that out when you kissed me."
Her laugh is soft against my shoulder. "That's not why you're in it."
"No?"
"You were in the moment you saw me fighting and decided I was worth saving. Thank you for that."
She's right, but I don't tell her that. Not yet.
The extraction point is a warehouse near the water, but I take the long way, doubling back twice to make sure we've lost pursuit.
Savannah stays pressed against me, and I'm hyperaware of every breath, every shift of her weight.
When I take a hard turn, her arms tighten around my waist, and her lips brush the back of my neck—probably accidental, but it sends electricity down my spine anyway.
Tyler would have liked her.
The thought comes unbidden as we ride through empty streets. He always said I needed someone who could match me, someone who wouldn't be scared off by the life we lead.
"Find a woman who can stab a man and kiss you in the same night," he joked once, drunk after a mission gone sideways. "That's the one who'll understand you."
I didn't think women like that existed outside of movies. But here she is, taped laptop and all, having just taken out trained killers with kitchen supplies and grandmother's jewelry.
Tyler, you bastard, you were right about everything.