ALEX POV
The gunfire shatters the night. The warehouse becomes a storm of muzzle flashes, the air vibrating with the staccato of bullets ricocheting off steel beams and concrete. The smell of gunpowder hits hard and hot, mixing with the faint trace of her perfume that still clings to my shirt.
"Stay down!" I shout, grabbing Camila's wrist and dragging her toward the metal workbench as sparks rain around us. She hits the ground beside me, covering her head. The sound of her panicked breathing cuts through the chaos, sharp and quick.
I roll out from behind the bench, return fire. One red dot disappears in a burst of light and glass. The shooter falls from the rafters, crashing into the concrete with a scream that dies before it finishes.
Two more.
"Alex!" Camila's voice trembles through the smoke. "There—by the stairs!"
I follow her gaze and spot the glint of a barrel through the haze. She's right. I pivot, drop to one knee, and shoot. The man tumbles backward down the metal staircase, his weapon skittering away.
"Good eyes," I mutter, sliding back behind cover. She's shaking but steady, braver than most trained recruits I've seen.
The last shooter starts advancing, using the crates as cover. His laser sweeps low, searching. I pull my last flashbang, yank the pin, and roll it across the floor. The explosion floods the room with white light. The gunman yells, blind, and I close in fast. My fist meets his jaw, my knee his ribs. He swings wildly — too slow. I catch his arm, twist hard, and wrench his weapon free before slamming him into the wall.
He crumples to the ground, still breathing. Not for long.
"Who sent you?" I growl, pressing the muzzle to his forehead.
He spits blood, grinning through broken teeth. "You already know."
"Say it."
"Your people," he rasps. "CIA."
The words ignite something dark inside me. I pull back and silence him for good. The warehouse goes quiet again — only the low hum of the failing lights and Camila's ragged breaths filling the air.
I holster my weapon and go to her. She's crouched behind the workbench, hands clutched to her chest. Her face is pale, streaked with sweat and dust, but her eyes find mine immediately.
"You okay?" I ask, crouching beside her.
She nods, but the tears that slip free tell me otherwise. "You killed them."
"They would've killed you first."
Her hands tremble. I take them gently, turning them palm-up to see they're scraped raw. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing."
"Everything about you is something," I say before I can stop myself.
Her eyes widen, locking on mine. The space between us shrinks until I can feel her heartbeat racing against my chest. The world outside ceases to exist — no cartel, no agents, no gunfire. Just her and me.
I brush a strand of hair from her face. She doesn't pull away. Her lips part, soft, trembling, waiting.
Then she kisses me.
It's soft at first, like a sigh — then deepens, desperate, hungry, all the fear and adrenaline poured into a single breath. My hands find her waist, her body pressing closer until I can feel every trembling line of her. The taste of her is salt and heat, the kind of addiction you never recover from.
When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard.
"I shouldn't have done that," I murmur, forehead resting against hers.
"I know," she whispers. "Do it again."
I do.
The kiss burns hotter this time, stealing every rational thought I've ever had. For a moment, the world is simple: she's alive, and I'm the reason.
But the sound of tires crunching gravel outside drags me back to reality.
"Damn it." I break away, grab the duffel, and pull her to her feet. "We have to go."
She blinks, dazed. "Who—?"
"Reinforcements. Not ours."
I pull her toward the side exit. My mind races, calculating routes and contingencies. Solano is still alive, and the mole has eyes everywhere. We need a ghost route, somewhere no signal can reach.
The back door slams open. Cold air rushes in. I lead her through the shadows, down a narrow alley behind the warehouse. The night is thick with rain again. Thunder rumbles overhead, echoing off the concrete walls.
"We can't keep running," she says between breaths. "They'll find us again."
"Not if I find them first."
"Alex—"
"I mean it." I turn, grip her shoulders, force her to look at me. "I'm done waiting for them to strike. I'm done hiding. The only way this ends is if I burn it all down — the cartel, the mole, every last one of them."
Her eyes glisten in the dim light. "And what about me?"
My voice softens. "You're the only thing I won't lose."
Her lips tremble, and she nods once. "Then let me help."
I don't know if she's ready for what that means, but I don't have the heart to refuse her.
We reach the car — a black pickup I stashed months ago for emergencies like this. I throw the bag in the back and start the engine. The windshield wipers struggle against the storm.
Camila slides into the passenger seat, hugging herself. "Where are we going?"
I glance at her, then out the window. "To find a ghost," I say.
She frowns. "A ghost?"
"The mole. Someone who knows him. Someone off-grid."
The headlights slice through the rain as I pull onto the empty road. The night feels endless, the kind of darkness that swallows whole cities. But she leans against the window, eyes drifting shut, trusting me completely.
I reach over, take her hand, and hold it tight.
"For now," I whisper, "sleep. I've got you."
CAMILA POV
The hum of the truck lulls me into a fragile calm. Every few minutes, I open my eyes just to see him — his profile lit by the passing streetlights, the hard lines of his jaw, the exhaustion in his eyes that he tries to hide.
He's silent, focused, dangerous. But underneath all that armor, I see something else — guilt. Fear. Need.
He thinks I don't notice how his thumb keeps brushing my hand like he needs to remind himself I'm real.
I turn my face toward him. "You don't have to protect me from everything."
He doesn't look at me. "That's my job."
"No," I say softly. "It's who you are."
That gets him. His jaw tightens, his eyes flicker toward me before returning to the road.
"I'm not good at letting people close," he admits quietly. "Everyone I protect ends up gone."
"Not me," I whisper. "Not this time."
He looks at me then, really looks. The storm outside flashes lightning through the cab, catching the edge of his eyes — and for the briefest second, I see it: hope.
He doesn't answer, but his fingers tighten around mine.
The rest of the drive passes in silence until we pull off into an old industrial park miles outside the city. He kills the engine. The rain has slowed to a mist, fog rolling low across the ground.
"Stay here," he orders, stepping out.
I watch him through the windshield as he circles the building, checking doors and windows. Always in motion. Always scanning. Even now, he looks lethal.
When he comes back, he opens my door. "We'll rest here. Just for a few hours."
Inside, the building is cold and empty, the kind of place forgotten by the world. He spreads a blanket on the floor, gestures for me to lie down. I do, exhaustion pulling at me.
He sits beside me, gun resting on his thigh, eyes fixed on the door.
"Sleep," he says again.
"You should too."
He shakes his head. "Later."
I study him through half-lidded eyes. The rain taps a slow rhythm on the roof, and somewhere between the fear and the warmth of his presence, I drift off.
The last thing I hear before sleep takes me is his voice, low and rough.
"I'll find him," he murmurs to the dark. "I swear it."
And for the first time in a long time, I believe him..