CHAPTER 11
Gemma
Pain is not a single, continuous sensation.
It is a living, breathing thing that pulses in time with your heartbeat. It recedes just enough to let you think you might survive, and then it surges forward, sharp and white-hot, completely overriding every other sensory input in your body.
I don't open my eyes. I can't. My eyelids feel like they are glued shut with grit and exhaustion.
The world is moving. I can feel the heavy vibration of an engine beneath me, the sway of a vehicle taking a sharp turn.
The smell of the air is wrong. It doesn't smell like the damp concrete of the basement or the clean, cold wind of the forest. It smells like stale cigarette smoke, old leather, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood.
My blood.
I try to take a deep breath, but the movement pulls the skin tight across my left side, sending a violent spike of agony through my ribs.
I gasp, my teeth clamping down hard on my lower lip.
"Gemma."
The voice is right next to me. It is harsh, rough, and completely stripped of its usual calm precision.
I force my eyes open. The bright morning sunlight filtering through the windshield hits my retinas like a physical blow. I blink rapidly, trying to clear the blurry, gray edges of my vision.
We are in the massive, black SUV. The trees are flying past the windows at a terrifying speed.
Callum is driving with his left hand. His right hand is completely occupied. He is pressing a thick, wad of white fabric—it looks like the sterile gauze from a first-aid kit—directly against my left side, right below my ribcage.
"Don't move," he orders. He doesn't look at me. His eyes are fixed on the road, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle is jumping beneath the skin.
I look down at myself.
The oversized cashmere hoodie is completely ruined. A massive, dark red stain has spread across the left side of the fabric, soaking through to the hem. Callum has pulled the heavy material up slightly to access the wound.
"It hurts," I whisper. The words feel thick and clumsy in my mouth.
"I know." He presses harder against the gauze.
I let out a sharp, involuntary cry, my hands flying up to grab his wrist. "Stop. Stop, you’re crushing it."
"I have to maintain pressure," he says, his voice completely unyielding, though I can feel a faint tremor in his arm. "You caught a piece of the deadbolt casing when the door blew. It’s a deep laceration. If I release pressure, you will bleed out."
I drop my head back against the headrest, staring at the gray ceiling of the SUV.
I try to remember the explosion in the basement.
I remember the deafening noise. I remember the smoke.
I remember falling backward and hitting the floor.
I don't remember feeling the metal tear into my side.
The adrenaline must have completely blocked the pain receptors until we were sitting in the car.
"Where are we going?" I ask, my voice sounding incredibly small.
"I am finding a sterile location," he says. "I need to clean the wound and close it."
"Close it?" I turn my head slowly to look at him. "Like... with stitches? Do you have a medical degree hidden in that tailored suit of yours?"
"I have field training." He glances at me for a fraction of a second. His face is pale beneath the dirt and the smear of the mercenary’s blood. "I can stabilize you."
"That is not a comforting answer, Callum." I try to shift my weight, but the pain flares again, stealing the breath from my lungs. "You fix problems by shooting them. You can't shoot a laceration."
"Stop talking," he says, his grip on the steering wheel tightening until his knuckles turn white. "Conserve your energy."
"I can't stop talking," I argue, though my voice is losing its strength. "If I stop talking, I start thinking about the fact that I am bleeding out in a stolen car driven by a hitman. And that is a very depressing reality to process before I’ve had decent coffee."
"You had coffee," he corrects automatically.
"That was battery acid in a mug."
I close my eyes again. The vibration of the car is making me nauseous. I focus entirely on the heavy, solid pressure of his hand against my side. It hurts, but it is also the only thing keeping me anchored to the physical world.
We drive for another twenty minutes.
The smooth asphalt of the highway eventually gives way to a rough, uneven dirt road. The SUV bounces violently over the deep ruts. Every jolt sends a fresh wave of agony through my ribs. I bite my lip, refusing to cry out again, but tears prick the corners of my eyes.
The car finally slows to a halt.
Callum shifts the vehicle into park and kills the engine.
"Keep your hand here," he instructs, grabbing my right hand and pulling it down to rest on top of the bloody gauze. "Press down as hard as you can."
I nod, pressing my palm against the wound. The fabric is warm and completely saturated.
Callum doesn't hesitate. He opens his door, grabs his tactical bag from the backseat, and walks around the front of the SUV. He opens my door, the cold morning air rushing into the cabin.
I look past him. We are parked behind an abandoned, dilapidated barn in the middle of an overgrown field. The wooden slats of the walls are rotting, and the roof is partially caved in.
"Five-star accommodations," I mutter, my head lolling slightly to the side.
"It’s off the main road and provides aerial cover," he says, ignoring my sarcasm. He pulls the green medical kit from his bag and sets it on the floorboard near my boots and pops the latches.
He pulls out a pair of black nitrile gloves, snapping them onto his hands with practiced efficiency. Next, he grabs a pair of heavy trauma shears and a bottle of clear liquid.
"I need to cut the hoodie," he says, looking at my face.
"It’s cashmere," I protest weakly. "You gave it to me."
"I will buy you another one." He leans in, the proximity overwhelming.
He doesn't wait for me to argue. He slides the bottom blade of the shears under the hem of the hoodie, right below the bloodstain, and cuts upward.
The thick fabric gives way with a sharp, tearing sound.
He cuts through the thin vintage t-shirt underneath, exposing the left side of my torso to the freezing air.
I shiver violently, the cold hitting my skin like ice.
"Hold still," he orders.
He pulls the bloody gauze away.
I look down. It’s a mistake. The cut is jagged, roughly four inches long, running diagonally across my lower ribs.
It isn't a clean slice; the metal tore the tissue, leaving the edges raw and angry.
Blood immediately begins to well up, spilling over my pale skin and soaking into the waistband of my jeans.
"Oh god," I whisper, my stomach violently rebelling. I look away, fixing my eyes on the rotting wood of the barn. "That looks terrible."
"It missed the internal organs," Callum says, his voice entirely clinical. He is back in his element. He is fixing a problem. "It’s a deep flesh wound. It will require sutures."
He picks up the bottle of clear liquid.
"What is that?" I ask, panic spiking in my chest.
"Saline and antiseptic," he says. "It is going to burn."
"Wait, wait—"
He doesn't wait. He pours the liquid directly over the open wound.
The pain is absolute. It is a blinding, searing fire that completely obliterates my vision. I scream, my body arching off the leather seat. My hands fly out, grabbing blindly for anything to stop the agony.
My fingers find the collar of his t-shirt. I grip the fabric, pulling him toward me, my nails digging into his chest.
"Breathe," he commands, his free hand gripping my hip to hold me still against the seat. "Breathe, Gemma."
I gasp, tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. The burning sensation slowly recedes into a dull, heavy throb. I let my head fall back against the seat, my chest heaving. I don't let go of his shirt.
Callum uses a clean piece of gauze to wipe away the excess liquid and blood, clearing the area around the cut.
He reaches into the medical kit and pulls out a small, curved needle attached to a thin black thread.
I stare at the needle. "You don't have anesthetic."
"I have a local numbing agent," he says, pulling a small syringe and a vial from the kit. "It will take the edge off, but you will still feel the pressure."
He fills the syringe and injects the clear liquid into the skin surrounding the laceration. It stings, a sharp, biting pain that is nothing compared to the antiseptic.
We wait in silence for two minutes. The wind rustles through the dead grass outside the barn.
"I’m sorry," I say, my voice thick with unshed tears.
Callum pauses, looking up at me. He is still holding my hip, his thumb resting gently against the denim of my jeans. "For what?"
"For getting you into this." I look away, staring at the dashboard. "If you had just shot me in my apartment, you would be back in New York right now. You wouldn't be hiding behind a barn, stitching up a hacker while the entire syndicate hunts you."
"I made my choice in your apartment," he says quietly.
"Why?" I look back at him. The question has been burning in the back of my mind since the moment he threw me over his shoulder. "You didn't know Marcus lied. You didn't know there was a bounty. You just... stopped."
He looks down at the curved needle in his hand.
For a long time, I think he isn't going to answer. I think he is going to retreat behind the professional mask and tell me I was leverage.
"Because," he finally says, his voice a low, rough rasp, "I looked at you, and I realized that a world without you in it was entirely unacceptable."
The words hang in the cold air between us.
They aren't romantic. They aren't soft. They are a brutal, possessive admission of fact. He didn't spare me out of mercy. He spared me out of a sudden, violent selfishness.
I stare at him, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He doesn't look at my face. He focuses entirely on the wound.
"Look away," he instructs.
I turn my head, staring at the steering wheel.
I feel the sharp pinch as the needle pierces my skin. It doesn't hurt as much as I expected, thanks to the numbing agent, but the sensation of the thread pulling through my flesh makes my stomach turn.
I tighten my grip on his t-shirt, burying my face in my shoulder to muffle the small, involuntary sounds of discomfort escaping my throat.
Callum works quickly. His hands are steady, precise, and entirely focused. He doesn't speak. He doesn't offer empty reassurances. He simply does what needs to be done to keep me alive.
"Done," he says softly, ten minutes later.
I turn my head.
The jagged cut is now pulled tightly together by a row of neat, black stitches. It looks brutal, but it isn't bleeding anymore. He covers the stitches with a large, sterile adhesive bandage, pressing the edges down firmly against my skin.
He pulls the bloody nitrile gloves off, tossing them into a plastic waste bag from the kit.
I let go of his shirt, my hand falling limply into my lap. The exhaustion is absolute. I feel like I have been hollowed out, leaving nothing behind but a fragile, aching shell.
Callum reaches into the backseat and pulls out a heavy, black tactical jacket. He drapes it over my shoulders, covering the ruined cashmere hoodie and the exposed skin of my torso.
The jacket is too big, swallowing me completely, but it is incredibly warm.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He doesn't reply. He closes the medical kit, sets it on the floorboard, and stands up. He looks out over the overgrown field, his eyes scanning the tree line for any sign of movement.
I watch him.
He is covered in dirt, plaster dust, and blood. He just threw away his entire life, his career, and his safety, all because he couldn't pull a trigger. And now, he is standing guard over me in the middle of nowhere.
"What happens now?" I ask, pulling the edges of the tactical jacket tighter around myself.
Callum turns back to me. The cold, clinical professional is gone. The man looking at me now is tired, dangerous, and entirely focused on the reality of our situation.
"Now," he says, resting his hand on the open door frame, "we go on the offensive."
I blink, confused. "Offensive? Callum, it’s just the two of us. We have one handgun, a stolen car, and a drive full of encrypted files. We can't fight a syndicate."
"We don't need to fight them," he says, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "We need to bankrupt them."
I stare at him, the pieces of the puzzle slowly clicking together in my mind.
"The ledger," I say, my voice dropping. "You want me to use the routing numbers on the drive."
"Marcus Thorne told the syndicate I hired you to steal the drive so I could hold them hostage," Callum says, a dark, dangerous edge creeping into his voice. "He lied. But if they are going to hunt us for the crime, we might as well commit it."
He leans down, bringing his face level with mine.
"I need you to drain their offshore accounts, Gemma. Every single one of them. I want their money moved, scrambled, and buried in ghost accounts they can never touch."
The audacity of the plan is staggering.
He doesn't want to run. He wants to burn their entire financial empire to the ground.
"If I do that," I say, my heart racing, "they will never stop looking for us. They will hunt us to the ends of the earth."
"They are already doing that," he points out calmly. "But if they have no money, they cannot pay the mercenaries. The bounties disappear. The hit squads disappear. They become exactly what Marcus is: cowards in expensive suits with no power."
I look down at the black plastic drive sitting in the cup holder of the center console.
It is the key to billions of dollars in illegal funds. It is the most dangerous object in the world right now.
I look back up at Callum.
"I need a secure terminal," I say, the hacker in me waking up, pushing the pain and the exhaustion to the background. "I can't do it from a laptop on public Wi-Fi. I need a hardwired connection that can't be traced back to our physical location."
"I know a place," he says.
"Is it safe?"
"No," he replies honestly. "But it is out of the syndicate’s immediate reach. It will take us six hours to drive there."
"Then we better get moving," I say, shifting carefully in the seat to avoid pulling the stitches.
Callum watches me for a second longer. The ghost of a smirk—a real, genuine expression of dark amusement—touches the corner of his mouth.
He shuts my door, walks around the front of the SUV, and gets back into the driver’s seat.
He puts the car in gear, and we pull away from the rotting barn, heading back toward the highway.
We aren't running anymore.
We are going to war.