"We've got company," Lo announced, somehow sounding delighted about it. "Ooh, and it's Volkova leading the pack. Didn't she break your ribs that time in Moscow?"
I glanced back at the approaching trio of motorcycles with a scowl. “Yeah, and she laughed about it after. Vincent, get down!”
I pressed him against the floorboards, his expensive suit be damned. He folded without argument, trusting me completely. That trust hit somewhere deep, somewhere I'd examine later when bullets weren't flying.
Diego swerved sharply, throwing me against the door. "Sorry about the dry cleaning bill, Doctor," he called back, his Andalusian accent thickening under stress. "But I promise you, death would ruin thatbeautiful suit much worse." He punched the accelerator, weaving through traffic.
The earpiece crackled, and a digitized voice came through: "Your primary route is compromised. Prometheus has agents at all major intersections."
"Thanks, Jasper," Diego replied.
That tactical precision in his instructions was impressive. Even under fire, Jasper's intel was flawless. If he really was Hephaestus as he'd claimed at our meeting, it explained how he could anticipate Prometheus's moves so accurately.
The digitized voice continued, urgency breaking through the modulation: "Three teams converging. Elite operatives. Prometheus has deployed significant resources." A pause, then what sounded almost like dark amusement. "He must be particularly desperate to recover you, Luka. I'm almost flattered by the resource allocation."
"Glad someone's enjoying this," I muttered, checking Vincent for injuries as another bullet pinged off the reinforced chassis.
"Enjoying? No." Jasper's distorted voice cooled. "Appreciating the tactical significance? Absolutely. He's never committed this level of manpower to a retrieval operation before."
Of course he had. This was personal now. I'd rejected him, chosen Vincent, shown the world his prize weapon had free will. He'd burn the city to get us back.
"Plan B," I ordered. "The hearse."
"Always plan for disaster, darling," Lo said, but his usual lightness felt forced.
Diego took us through the financial district, past buildings I'd once surveilled from. Different life. Different Luka. That man would have completed the contract, collected his penny, moved on. That man was dead the moment Vincent opened his door in pajama pants.
"Coming up on the switch point," Diego announced, tapping his steering wheel in a specific rhythm. "Classic smuggler's shuffle. They'll be watching for our damaged SUV, not what comes next."
"They're making a move," Lo warned.
Volkova accelerated, her Ducati eating up the distance.
"DOWN!" I shoved Vincent flat again.
His breath hitched against my collarbone while his pupils dilated from fear or arousal or both. Impossible to separate now. All that mattered was the solid warmth of him beneath me, still breathing, still whole.
"Sorry darling, those boots don't go with that bike anyway!" Lo called out as Volkova swerved but couldn't recover. Metal met metal in a symphony of destruction. One down. "Cross her off the Christmas card list," Lo quipped, already scanning for the next threat.
"Incoming!" Diego’s shout snapped my attention right. Black Range Rover, aiming to T-bone us. Diego floored it, the engine screaming. We cleared the intersection with inches to spare.
Through it all, Vincent stayed exactly where I'd put him. No panic, no fighting my hold. Complete trust. Something fierce and possessive rose in my chest. Mine to protect. Mine to keep alive. Mine.
The earpiece buzzed again: "East stairwell clear. Ninety seconds for vehicle transfer once inside."
"They're herding us," I realized aloud. Classic Prometheus—make your enemy think they're escaping while guiding them into a kill box where he could collect his penny personally.
Diego solved that by taking us through an alley barely wide enough for our SUV. "Not today, motherfuckers."
The parking garage loomed ahead, a nondescript concrete structure. My hand found Vincent's shoulder, squeezing once. You'reokay. We're okay. His fingers covered mine briefly before I had to focus on the approaching garage.
"When we stop," I told him, "you move exactly as we practiced."
His tongue darted across his lips. I wanted to catch it with my teeth, taste his fear and transform it into something else. Later. If we survived. When we survived.
"Stay low, move fast, follow your lead," he confirmed.
Good. Perfect. I drank in the sight of him—disheveled but determined, afraid but trusting. If this went sideways, I wanted this image burned into my brain: Vincent choosing to trust me even unto death.
