Chapter 8 Gage
EIGHT
GAGE
By the time I get the alert from Arrow, River’s already running.
Her phone GPS lights up my secondary monitor—pulsing red dot moving fast through the lower east side, heading for the parking garage exit. The live feed shows a hooded figure in the shadows by the concrete pillar. Wrong stance. Wrong timing. The posture of someone waiting, not passing through.
I’m already out of my chair before I realize it. The adrenaline kicks in, sharp and hot, a jolt that feels like muscle memory.
ARROW: “I’ve got eyes on her. You’re closer, Gage. Two blocks out.”
ME: “I’m on it.”
ARROW: “You see the hoodie?”
ME: “Yeah.”
I run through the hallways at work like a man on a mission. Well, I am a man on a very important mission. Find this asshole before he can hurt River. I get to the parking garage and glance around.
The air smells like cold concrete and burned rubber. The echo of footsteps bounces off every surface. Hers? Theirs? I can’t tell. I take the corner too fast and nearly wipe out on a slick oil patch.
I told her to drive. To keep going.
Now I’m here to make sure that wasn’t a mistake.
I follow the sound. Quick, deliberate, just enough weight to belong to someone who thinks they’re invisible. I spot movement near the maintenance stairs—hoodie, dark jeans, gloved hands.
“Hey!” My voice cracks through the air.
The shadow freezes. For half a second, I swear they’re about to turn around. But then they bolt. Up the stairwell. I chase.
The stairwell reeks of metal and mildew, footsteps slapping out a rhythm like a countdown clock. The hooded figure bursts out onto the top floor, vaults a row of tires, then cuts left toward the pedestrian ramp.
I’m faster, angrier, closing in—until I’m not.
They slip between two parked trucks and vanish like smoke. I hit the spot a breath later. Fucking nothing. No sign. Just the stutter of my pulse in my ears and a bitter taste in my mouth.
Gone.
Arrow’s voice breaks through the static. “You lose them?”
“Yeah,” I rasp, breathing hard. “But she’s safe. She’s already on the main road.”
“Good. Because we can’t risk her staying there another night.”
“I know.”
I pull my phone out and type a single encrypted message into the burner chat we use through Mask’s system.
MASK: You need a new place. Somewhere quiet. Secure. Don’t ask questions.
RIVER: Where?
MASK: I’ll send coordinates. There’s a key code on the lockbox—1439.
RIVER: Why do I trust you?
MASK: Because you’re still alive.
I hit send before I can think too hard about the line. Because it’s true. Because it’s the only thing that matters.
Two hours later, I’m at Riverside with Arrow and Knight.
Knight’s unloading crates of nonperishables and a portable monitor setup. Arrow’s sweeping the perimeter, checking locks, sensors, and line of sight.
We move fast, efficient. We’ve done this before. Different woman. Same nightmare.
The room looks better than I expected—clean, stocked, anonymous. There’s a small table now, a lamp with warm light, a real bedroom with a bed with a cupcake blanket Juno brought. It’s still needs work, but it feels almost human. We set up the cameras, and then we head to the back room.
Our command center sits on the other side of a concrete wall from her safe house. A bank of monitors showing her space. I check the cameras again. Each one feeds into my tablet—four angles, overlapping fields of view. No blind spots. No signal leaks.
“She’ll be safe here,” Arrow says finally. “No one can trace this network. No one even knows this place exists.”
I nod, still scanning the screens like I’ll find something we missed. “I’ll drop more supplies later. Keep her stocked.”
Knight gives me a look. “You mean you’ll watch her.”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
And then, I send the coordinates to River.
Night comes fast, and with it, silence. I set the box of groceries by the door, knock once, then walk back to my car before she can open it. My heart’s beating like I just sprinted three miles.
She doesn’t know it’s me. She can’t.
If she did—if she realized the same man who teases her about semicolons and steals her coffee is also the one hiding behind a mask and saving her in the dark—she’d look at me differently. Maybe hate me for the lies. Maybe something worse.
I drive a block away, park, and pull up the Riverside feed.
She’s inside now, standing by the door with her phone still in her hand. The grocery box sits open at her feet. Her shoulders slump, a small exhale shaking through her before she pushes her hair back and looks around the room.
God, she looks exhausted.
She touches the blue blanket with cupcakes on it. Smiles, just barely. Then she collapses onto the bed, curling on her side. The camera catches the curve of her jaw, the faint red mark on her cheek from where she must’ve fallen asleep in her car earlier.
I shouldn’t be watching.
I know I shouldn’t.
But I can’t look away.
Arrow calls twenty minutes later. “You get her in?”
“She’s safe.”
“Good.” He pauses, voice softening. “You okay, man? You sound… off.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
I smirk faintly. “Maybe.”
Knight’s voice joins the line, muffled in the background. “He’s not fine. He’s in love.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, though they both laugh because it’s not exactly a denial.
“Hey,” Arrow says quietly, serious again. “Just remember what we talked about. You can care. You can protect. But if you fall too deep, it gets messy. You can’t protect her from behind that mask and hold her hand.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I glance back at the screen as River shifts in her sleep, the blanket slipping from her shoulder. I swallow hard. “Yeah. I do.”
Hours later, I’m still there. The city’s gone quiet outside, but inside the Riverside feed, River’s restlessness paints a different story. She keeps getting up, checking the window, pacing. Her fingers twist the drawstring of her hoodie, over and over.
Then she opens her phone, screen glow washing over her face. I can’t see what she’s typing, but I can guess. She’s talking to Mask. Talking to me.
The message comes through seconds later.
RIVER: Thank you. For keeping me safe.
I exhale slowly, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Every instinct in me wants to tell her it’s me, that she’s not alone in this hell, that the guy who drives her insane every morning is also the one who’d burn the world for her.
Instead, I type:
MASK: Sleep. You’re safe here.
She reads it, hesitates, then sets the phone down beside the bed. The corner of her mouth lifts, just slightly. A tiny, fragile smile.
The camera angle catches the faint light in her eyes before she closes them.
And that’s when I realize I’m done for.
There’s no coming back from this.
Not from the way she makes me feel when she smiles. Not from the way her name tastes like something I’ve been starving for. Not from the way my chest aches every time she looks scared—and the way it eases when she breathes again.
Arrow’s words echo in my head. You can’t protect her from behind the mask and hold her hand.
He’s right. But I’m already falling, and the ground’s coming up fast.
So I keep watch.
The vigilante.
The ghost.
The idiot who’s already in too deep.
Because as long as she’s safe, I can live with the rest.
Even if it kills me.