Ellie's POV
Scream.
It was her own. A primal, tearing sound filled the hallway. The man in black, halfway through the hole in the wall, froze for a critical half-second, his head snapping toward the unexpected noise.
It was all the opening Nicholas needed.
He didn't fire his gun. He moved like lightning, closing the distance in two strides. His free hand chopped down on the man's wrist holding the weapon. A sickening crack echoed. The weapon clattered to the floor. Nicholas followed with a brutal elbow to the man's throat, then planted both hands on his shoulders and shoved him violently back into the dark utility shaft. They heard a yelp of pain and a series of crashing thuds as he fell back down.
Nicholas whirled on Ellie, his face a mask of pure, undiluted fury in the gloom. "What did you do?!" he roared, grabbing her shoulders. The knife trembled in her hand; its point aimed uselessly at the floor.
"I had the knife," she stammered, the fight draining out of her, replaced by a crashing wave of shock at his anger.
"You could have been killed! You will be killed if you don't listen!" His grip was tight, his eyes blazing. But beneath the anger, she saw a flash of fear. Not for himself. For her.
Marco skidded into the hallway, gun raised. He took in the scene, the broken panel, the fallen weapon, and Ellie with her knife, and his stony face registered pure disbelief.
"They're in the shaft. There will be more," Nicholas said, releasing Ellie but staying close, his body still angled to shield her from the hole in the wall. "We're leaving. Now."
This time, Ellie didn't argue. Her knees felt like water. She dropped the knife. It clattered on the hardwood floor. Marco led the way, moving fast and silently back toward the ruined front door. Nicholas pushed Ellie behind him, his own gun trained backward, covering their retreat.
They didn't take the elevator. Marco led them to a cold, concrete service staircase, their footsteps echoing like gunshots in the hollow space. They ran down flight after flight, Ellie's lungs burning, her mind a blank white static of terror. She focused only on Nicholas's back in front of her, on not tripping.
They burst out into a different, smaller, grimy garage. A plain gray sedan was already running, a grim-faced man Ellie didn't recognize at the wheel. They piled in Marco in front, Ellie and Nicholas in the back. The car pulled out smoothly and merged into the late-night traffic.
No one spoke. Ellie hugged herself, the violent shivers starting deep in her bones. She replayed it: the broken panel, the man's masked face, the feel of the knife handle. She had charged a trained attacker with a kitchen knife. It was the dumbest, bravest thing she had ever done.
After twenty minutes of silent driving, they pulled into the garage of another building, this one older, made of soot-stained brick. The apartment they entered was the opposite of the penthouse. It was small, cramped, and smelled of old coffee, dust, and mildew. The furniture was worn and mismatched. This was a safe house, not a showcase.
Nicholas finally looked at her. The anger was gone, replaced by a weary, bone-deep tension. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, unable to speak.
"Why?" he asked, the single word heavy with exhaustion and something else she couldn't name.
"I… couldn't just run," she whispered, looking at her empty hands. "I was so tired of running. Of being pushed."
He stared at her for a long moment, then gave a slow, single nod. It wasn't approval. It was understanding.
Marco was on a burner phone, speaking in low, urgent tones. He hung up. "Two captured in the shaft by building security. One broke his leg in the fall. They're hired muscle. Not the Costa family directly. Freelancers."
"Sent to grab her," Nicholas concluded, his eyes cutting to Ellie.
"Or to panic us into moving her," Marco said. "Which we did."
They had played right into the enemy's hands. The thought made Ellie feel sick.
"We stay here tonight. Static protocol. No contact," Nicholas ordered. He looked at the cramped space, the one sagging couch. "You take the bedroom," he said to Ellie. "Marco and I will alternate watch."
The bedroom was tiny, just a full-sized bed and a scarred dresser. Ellie sat on the edge of the thin mattress, her mind racing. The adrenaline was gone, leaving a hollow, shaky feeling. She'd almost died. She'd almost gotten Nicholas killed by distracting him.
A soft knock on the open doorframe made her jump. Nicholas stood there, holding two glasses of tap water. He handed her one.
"I'm sorry," she blurted out, taking the glass. "I messed up."
"You acted," he said, leaning against the doorframe. "It was reckless. But it wasn't cowardly. In my world, that is a rare thing." He took a sip of water. "The knife was a good choice. Better reach than a paring knife."
Was he joking? A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He was.
"Get some sleep," he said. "Tomorrow, we start over."
He turned to go.
"Nicholas," she said. He paused. "Thank you. For not letting go in the alley."
He didn't turn back, but his shoulders relaxed a fraction. "Get some sleep, Ellie."
The door clicked shut. Ellie lay down on the unfamiliar bed, staring at the water-stained ceiling. The fear was still there, a cold stone in her gut. But something else was there too, small and stubborn. A feeling that she wasn't just a witness or a liability. She had a knife. And she knew how to use it.
Just as her eyes began to drift shut, her phone, buried in her coat pocket, which was draped over the chair, buzzed. Once. A text. She hadn't used it, hadn't even looked at it, since before the explosion. Who even had this number? With a sense of dread colder than the room, she fumbled for it. The screen glowed in the dark. It was a message from an unknown number. No words. Just a single, clear photo attachment. Her thumb hovered, then tapped it. The image loaded. It was a picture of her father's old, closed-down auto repair shop, taken recently in the daylight. And spray-painted across its boarded-up door in bright, fresh red paint was a single word: SOON.