Page 61 of Marked to Be Mine


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The thought of what methods they could have used to extract that information sent something beyond rage coursing through me—a cold, lethal focus sharper than any conditioning protocol. My hand tightened around my weapon until my knuckles turned white.

Specter analyzed the bullet trajectories embedded in the opposite wall. “Shooter’s targeting you specifically. Shots. They’re not trying to hit me.”

A moment of tactical calculation passed between us, an unspoken professional assessment.

“Go. Now.” Specter checked his weapon with efficient movements, sliding a fresh magazine into place. “Vila Madalena. I’ve entered coordinates on your phone. I’ll handle this and follow.”

I hesitated, strategic logic warring with newfound loyalty. Leaving an ally behind contradicted no operational protocol, yet something in me resisted.

“Every minute we fight this battle is another minute they have Maeve.” Specter’s voice hardened to tactical clarity. “She’s the priority, before she disappears into the system.”

Another bullet punched through the wall, plaster dust exploding in a white cloud.

I gathered essential weapons with an economy of movement, securing them against my body while maintaining cover. “Remind me what my survival probability was after that compound?”

Specter reloaded his weapon, expression grim as a morgue attendant. “Less than 10%.”

A smile formed on my face—not the empty mimicry of human expression I’d been trained to display, but something dangerous and genuine, belonging to the man I was before Reaper. “Then Brock’s odds of surviving today are about the same.”

Specter nodded once, positioning himself to provide covering fire. I moved toward the back exit, muscles coiled for the hunt to come.

Chapter 15

Reaper

The night air in Vila Madalena cut through my senses—cleaner, crisper than the favela—carrying notes of expensive cologne and artisanal coffee rather than cooking oil and humanity. I moved through shadows, my footsteps silent against the cobblestone streets. The privileged neighborhood slept beneath its illusion of safety—trendy storefronts dark and shuttered, vibrant daytime energy replaced by eerie silence. Only occasional passing headlights swept across the façades, momentarily illuminating the street before darkness reclaimed it.

Café Bella sat on the corner ahead—my target. According to Specter’s intel, this was where Maeve was taken before disappearing. The café appeared ordinary: security shutters were drawn, lights were off, and the café was closed for business. But I knew better.

My eyes tracked across rooftops and street corners in a sequence as familiar as breathing. Cameras hid in plain sight—one disguised as a traffic monitor at the intersection, two more embedded in neighboring storefronts, their fields overlapping. My mind mapped their blindspots automatically, plotting my approach through negative space—a skill I didn’t recall learning but executed flawlessly.

Pausing in shadow, I pressed my hand against my chest where Maeve’s shirt rested beneath my tactical vest. The cotton felt impossibly soft against my fingertips, carrying traces of her scent beneath gunpowder and sweat. The simple gesture grounded me, anchored me to purpose. Not for a mission. Not for orders. For her. The sentiment felt alien yet essential, like discovering a vital organ I never knew I possessed.

I approached from the west side, moving between camera zones with fluid efficiency. The café’s exterior revealed inconsistencies to my trained eye—air conditioning units twice the size necessary for the space, power cabling far too robust, subtle reinforcement in the window frames disguised as decorative elements. Not obvious unless you knew what to look for.

And somehow, I did.

The security measures were military-grade, not commercial: thermal detection sensors embedded in window frames, electromagnetic locks disguised as standard deadbolts, and motion detection grids. This wasn’t a café. It was a fortress wearing civilian clothes—the kind of place that swallowed people whole.

I located a service entrance along the rear alley, positioned in the overlap of two camera blind spots. My fingers extracted lockpicks before conscious thought completed, the metal cold and familiar against my skin. The way I held them—the angle of approach—triggered flashes of memory. A hand guidingmine. A voice offering approval. I’d done this thousands of times. The lock yielded in seconds with a barely audible click.

The door had secondary security—electronic, not mechanical. My hands moved autonomously, finding the alarm panel hidden behind a false electrical box. Six wires, color-coded. Red to disable the door sensor, blue to bypass the motion detection, and yellow for the silent alarm. I stripped and crossed them with practiced efficiency, muscle memory guiding me through procedures my conscious mind never learned. The knowledge existed without origin—another gift from whoever stripped away my past and rebuilt me as a weapon.

Three green lights on the tiny circuit board confirmed success. No alarms triggered, no alerts sent. I slipped inside, closing the door behind me with calculated silence.

Darkness enveloped me like an old friend. I moved through it without hesitation, my body remembering paths my mind never consciously mapped. My programming demanded stealth even with security disabled—old habits carved into bone and sinew.

Inside, the café’s front operation was meticulous: espresso machines, pastry cases, stacked cups. But inconsistencies multiplied. The storage areas were too small for the supplies a busy café would require. Walls didn’t match exterior dimensions. The floor plan was illogical for a service establishment.

I moved silently across the polished concrete floor, noting the unusual density beneathmy boots. Reinforced. Able to support far more weight than coffee shop patrons and equipment. Military grade.

Behind a storage shelf loaded with coffee beans, I ran my fingers along the wall seam, finding the nearly invisible break. Muscle memory took over as I pressed specific points in sequence—a code my body remembered while my mind remained blank. The false wall receded, barely a whisper of sound.

“I know you,” I whispered to the technology, strange recognition flowing through me. The concealment mechanism used a particular counterbalance system I recognized in my bones. My fingers found the manual override without searching, like returning to a childhood home I’d never seen.

I disabled the alarm system with disturbing ease, bypassing security protocols that should require specialized knowledge. Yet my hands moved with absolute certainty, executing complex sequences that existed in muscle memory without conscious recollection.

The wall revealed a service elevator. Industrial. Unremarkable except for its presence in a café. I recognized the manufacturer’s subtle hallmarks—the same used in high-security government facilities.