CHAPTER 2
Callum
There is a fundamental rule in my line of work: you never alter the parameters of a contract once you enter the room.
You walk in, you execute the objective, and you walk out. The moment you start improvising, you introduce variables. Variables lead to mistakes, and mistakes usually end with someone bleeding out on a linoleum floor.
I am currently carrying a one-hundred-and-thirty-pound variable over my right shoulder, walking down a dimly lit stairwell that smells of stale beer and damp plaster.
"If you drop me, I’m suing," she mutters, her voice vibrating against the wool of my suit jacket.
I don’t answer. I keep my pace even, my footsteps completely silent on the concrete stairs despite her added weight. She isn’t heavy, but she is entirely uncooperative, her elbow occasionally digging into my spine as she shifts.
I should have pulled the trigger.
The thought is clinical, a simple statement of fact running through the back of my mind as we reach the third-floor landing. When I had the gun leveled at her chest, my finger was resting on the trigger guard. I had the angle. I had the silence. I had the authorization.
But then she looked at me. She didn’t beg. She didn’t cry. She insulted my suit and told me to get it over with.
The burner phone vibrating in her pocket gave me the tactical excuse I needed to lower the weapon, but the uncomfortable truth is already settling like a stone in my stomach: I hesitated before the phone ever buzzed.
I push the thought away. I don't have the luxury of analyzing my own psychological failures right now.
We reach the ground floor. I bypass the main lobby, pushing through the heavy fire door that leads to the back alley. The cold New York night air hits us instantly, biting through the thin fabric of her vintage t-shirt.
I stop beside a matte-black Audi RS Q8 parked in the shadows between two dumpsters. I shift my grip, hooking my arm around her waist, and set her down on her feet.
Her heavy boots hit the pavement, but her knees buckle slightly from the sudden rush of blood leaving her head. I catch her left elbow before she can hit the asphalt.
The moment my leather glove grips her bare arm, she flinches, pulling away as if I burned her.
"I can stand," she snaps, taking a shaky step back. Her dark hair is a chaotic mess around her face, and her chest is heaving. She looks wildly at the alley, her eyes darting toward the street exit.
She is calculating the distance. She is wondering if she can outrun me.
"You wouldn't make it to the sidewalk," I tell her smoothly, opening the passenger door of the Audi. "Get in."
She glares at me, her teeth sinking into her lower lip—a nervous tic I noticed upstairs. "You said there were people coming to kill me. Why should I get into a car with a guy who broke into my apartment to do the exact same thing?"
"Because the people coming for you don't care about making a mess," I say, my voice dropping a fraction to convey the absolute reality of her situation.
"They will shoot you, they will shoot your neighbors, and they will burn your building to the ground to cover the evidence.
I am offering you a seat with seat heating. Make a choice, Gemma."
The sound of tires screeching at the front of her building echoes through the alley.
Heavy doors slam open. Boots hit the pavement. The cleanup crew is early.
Gemma’s eyes widen. The defiance in her posture crumbles, replaced by the raw, visceral instinct to survive. She doesn't argue anymore. She dives into the passenger seat.
I shut the door behind her, walk around the hood of the car, and slide into the driver’s seat. I don't turn on the headlights. I press the ignition button. The V8 engine purrs to life, a low, menacing growl that barely vibrates through the armored chassis.
"Put your seatbelt on," I order, shifting into drive.
She scrambles with the buckle, her hands shaking so badly the metal clicks twice before it catches.
I ease the Audi out of the alley, turning the steering wheel with one hand.
As we merge onto the cross street, I glance in the rearview mirror.
A dark gray tactical van is idling directly in front of her apartment building.
Four men in dark clothing are already moving toward the front entrance, carrying suppressed rifles.
Marcus didn't hire a standard cleanup crew. He hired a paramilitary squad.
My jaw tightens. The leather of the steering wheel creaks faintly under my grip. Marcus Thorne is a coward who drinks too much scotch and worries about his stock prices. He doesn't have the connections to mobilize a team like that in under twelve hours. Someone else is pulling the strings.
I navigate the empty streets of lower Manhattan, taking a convoluted route toward the Holland Tunnel. I keep my speed exactly at the limit. Speeding draws cops. Cops draw questions. We need to be a ghost.
For the first twenty minutes, the inside of the car is dead silent.
The only sound is the faint hum of the tires on the asphalt and the soft, rhythmic sound of Gemma’s breathing. I keep my eyes on the road, monitoring the mirrors every ten seconds, but my peripheral vision is entirely occupied by her.
She is sitting rigidly in the passenger seat, her knees pressed together, her hands gripping the edge of her seatbelt. The yellow glow of the streetlights washes over her face in steady intervals, illuminating the pale, exhausted curve of her cheek.
She is terrified.
Most people, when faced with the reality of their own mortality, shut down. They retreat inward.
Gemma Hayes, apparently, does the exact opposite.
"So," she says.
The word slices through the quiet interior of the car like a dull knife.
I don't look at her. I check my side mirror. "So."
"Is this the part where you take me to an abandoned warehouse by the docks?
" she asks. Her voice is a little too loud, entirely lacking the smooth cadence of a normal conversation.
"Because I feel like I should warn you, I have an incredibly low tolerance for damp environments. My hair frizzes. It’s a whole situation. "
I slowly exhale through my nose. "We are not going to a warehouse."
"Great. Love that for us." She shifts in her seat, turning her body slightly toward me. "A cabin in the woods, then? Very horror movie aesthetic. Do you have a chainsaw in the trunk, or are you more of a 'plastic sheets and duct tape' kind of guy?"
I glance at her. She is staring at the side of my face, her dark eyes wide and bright with a frantic, manic energy. She is using the words to build a wall between herself and the panic. It’s a defense mechanism. It’s irritating, but it’s also remarkably human.
"I don't use chainsaws," I say, keeping my tone entirely flat. "They are loud, messy, and require too much maintenance."
She blinks. "That... was a joke. You were supposed to laugh, or tell me to shut up, not give me a logistical review of murder weapons."
"I don't joke while I'm driving, Gemma."
"Do you joke at all?" she asks, leaning her head back against the headrest, though her posture remains stiff. "Or did they surgically remove your sense of humor when they issued you that suit?"
I press my tongue against the back of my teeth. The urge to tell her to be quiet is strong, but the silence clearly tortures her more than it bothers me. If letting her talk keeps her from having a full-blown panic attack in my passenger seat, I will tolerate the noise.
"The suit is bespoke," I reply calmly, merging onto the highway. The city skyline begins to shrink in the rearview mirror. "And I have a sense of humor. I simply don't find this situation particularly amusing."
She lets out a short, breathy sound that might be a laugh.
"Right. Well, forgive me if I’m trying to lighten the mood.
Usually, my weeknights involve eating takeout and writing code, not being abducted by a hitman who smells like.
.." She pauses, sniffing the air dramatically.
"What is that? Cedar and expensive decisions? "
"It’s Tom Ford," I say, though I have no idea why I am engaging in this conversation.
"Of course it is." She looks out the window, watching the dark trees blur past as we leave the city limits.
The silence returns, but it’s different this time. It feels heavier, thick with the unsaid reality of what just happened. She has the drive. I have her. We are both running from the same people.
I reach out and adjust the climate control, lowering the temperature by two degrees. The air in the cabin is starting to feel suffocating.
"Why didn't you do it?"
Her voice is much quieter now. The sarcasm is gone, stripped away to reveal the raw, trembling exhaustion underneath.
I keep my eyes fixed on the red taillights of a semi-truck a quarter-mile ahead. "I told you. The parameters changed when the secondary team arrived."
"That’s a lie."
The absolute certainty in her tone makes my grip tighten on the wheel. I don't react visually, but a cold spike of adrenaline hits my bloodstream.
"Excuse me?" I ask, my voice dangerously soft.
"You hesitated," she says, turning her head to look at me again.
She isn't shouting. She is observing me the same way she probably observes a complex string of code, looking for the vulnerability in the system.
"Before the phone rang. Before you knew they were coming.
You had the gun pointed at me, and you stopped. "
"I was calculating the trajectory to ensure a clean exit wound," I lie smoothly. It’s a good lie. It sounds exactly like something a professional would say.
"Bullshit." She shifts closer to the center console, invading the neutral space between us. "You looked at my mouth. You looked at my face, and you decided not to pull the trigger. Why?"
I finally turn my head and meet her gaze.