I scrambled to my feet as he directed us toward a narrow gap between buildings—too small for the SUVs to follow. More shots rang out behind us, bullets pinging off metal walls.
“You’re hit,” I said between gasps.
“Irrelevant.”
We emerged into another corridor and spotted a half-open loading dock door. Reaper checked before ushering me inside.
The abandoned space smelled of rust and standing water. Shadows concealed the room’s dimensions, only faint light filtering through broken skylights above. Concrete crumbled along the walls, and metal supports were exposed like skeletal ribs.
Reaper positioned himself to monitor both our entrance and a rear exit, weapon ready.
“Let me see,” I insisted, approaching him. He may have thought he was invincible and untouchable because that was what he had been taught, but, at the end of the day, he was just a man.
He didn’t respond, attention fixed on the doorway. I took that as a sign to approach him and inspect his wound. His right shoulder showed a small tear in the fabric, but no spreading bloodstain. When I approached him, though, I found myself hesitating once more.
“Reaper. Let me see.”
After a moment of silence, he permitted my approach with a slight nod. I pushed the torn fabric aside, expecting a bullet wound but finding something entirely different—a small glass cylinder embedded in muscle, a droplet of clear liquid visible at its tip.
“That’s not a bullet,” I said, my voice rising with panic. “It looks like… an injector.”
Reaper’s gaze dropped to his shoulder, and then he extracted the device, examining it under what little light filtered through the skylights.
“What is that?” My hands shook as I reached toward it. “Why did you take that for me?”
His eyes met mine, conveying something more complex than his words. “Trajectory analysis indicated you were the target.”
“Are you feeling alright? What if it’s poison?” I pressed my palm against his forehead, searching for fever.
He shook his head. “If it were designed to kill, I’d already be dead. If it’s designed for something else…”
The unfinished thought hung between us, more threatening than any explanation.
“Is it a tracker? Or something to disable your programming?” The journalist in me couldn’t stop asking questions even as fear clenched my stomach. I couldn’t lose him after we’d made so much progress together. We needed each other, more than either wanted to admit.
“Later.” He tucked the empty injector into his pocket. “They are still after us.”
A distinct mechanical whirring cut through the rainfall.
“Drones,” he said, tensing as he scanned the skylight.
Through broken glass panels, I spotted them—sleek black hexacopters with glowing red thermal imaging lenses that resembled predator eyes, methodically sweeping the area.
“What the hell?” I whispered, throat tight.
“Military-grade surveillance. They’ll see right through these walls with thermal imaging.” Reaper’s movementsbecame more urgent as he assessed our limited options. “They’ll scan from above and enter every room.”
My legs trembled as I followed him toward the back of the warehouse. “Why drones now? They already had people on the ground.”
“They must have lost our tracks, and drones are faster.” His voice remained emotionless despite the revelation. “They are losing patience. They want to capture us sooner rather than later.”
We slipped through a corridor of stacked crates. The whirring grew louder overhead, red light sweeping across broken windows.
“Here.” Reaper’s hand closed around my wrist, pulling me toward a sturdy maintenance closet barely visible in the dim light. He yanked the door open, revealing a space hardly bigger than a phone booth, crammed with cleaning supplies.
“No way we both fit in there,” I protested.
The drone’s engines intensified above us.
