Page 64 of Close Protection

Julia twisted aside, avoiding the worst of the impact, but felt fire explode along her ribs as the baton caught her partial protective vest. She dropped and rolled, her law enforcement training taking over whereconscious thought faltered. Behind her, she could hear Ivy coughing as the CS gas thickened—disoriented but conscious and aware of the threat.

Two more figures appeared through the gas, moving in coordinated formation. These weren't standard enforcers; these were Knox's elite team of former special forces operators, now mercenaries with particular skills.

Julia feinted left, then drove forward into the nearest attacker, trying to create distance between them and Ivy. A sharp blow caught her shoulder, sending electric pain down her arm. She absorbed the impact, using the momentum to fuel her counterstrike, driving her elbow into her attacker's solar plexus.

The man grunted, doubling slightly but not breaking formation. These weren't street thugs; these were trained fighters who understood pain management and tactical positioning.

"Secure the target," one of them ordered, voice muffled through a mask that protected against the gas. "Clock's running."

Julia caught glimpses of Ivy through the chaos—pressed against the wall, eyesstreaming from the gas, but mind clearly working as she searched for a weapon, an escape route, an advantage. Not panicking, but assessing and planning. Even now, her analytical mind remained her strongest asset.

A renewed surge of protectiveness drove Julia forward. She charged the nearest figure, abandoning defensive posture for aggressive engagement, trying to draw attention from Ivy. The tactic succeeded too well; the operator let her close the distance, then sidestepped, delivering a precise blow to her unprotected side.

Pain exploded along Julia's kidney, vision swimming as her knees threatened to buckle. Training kept her upright, kept her moving. She pivoted, bringing her forearm up to block a follow-up strike, then drove her knee toward her attacker's groin. The man shifted, taking the blow on his thigh rather than the intended target.

"Julia!" Ivy's voice cut through the chaos, sharp with warning rather than fear.

Julia turned just as another operator emerged from the gas, taser raised and aimed. She tried to shift aside, but thedisorientation from the flash-bang had compromised her spatial awareness. The electrodes caught her squarely, delivering fifty thousand volts in an incapacitating surge.

Her muscles seized, nerves firing in conflicting patterns that rendered her training irrelevant. Julia collapsed to her knees, fighting to maintain consciousness as electricity coursed through her system. Through watering eyes, she saw the dark figures converging on Ivy's position.

"No," she gasped, the word barely audible through gritted teeth.

With monumental effort, Julia forced herself forward, crawling toward Ivy despite muscles that refused proper commands. She had one chance—the backup weapon strapped to her ankle, hidden beneath pajama pants. If she could just reach it...

An operator noticed her movement as he turned. Julia saw the decision in his posture, the recognition that she remained a threat despite her compromised state. The tactical baton rose and fell with precision, connecting with her temple in a controlled strike designed to incapacitate without killing.

Darkness exploded behind Julia's eyes. The last thing she saw was Ivy struggling as masked figures dragged her toward the doorway, honey-blonde hair catching the dim light as she fought despite the overwhelming force. The last thing she heard was Ivy calling her name, voice sharp with something beyond fear.

Then nothing but darkness, failure, and the knowledge that she had lost the one person she had finally allowed herself to need.

When she finally regained consciousness, she found the first indication near the window: scuff marks on the fire escape, a distinctive boot pattern matching military-grade footwear. The second came from the living room, where a displaced ceiling panel revealed they'd accessed the electrical system to disable the auxiliary security measures.

Professionals, but with limited time. They'd been efficient but not perfect.

Julia swept the bedroom again, searching for anything she might have missed. Knox would have taken Ivy to a secure location—somewhere he controlled completely, somewhere with infrastructure for interrogation.She ran through the properties they'd identified during their investigation, ranking them by likelihood and security features.

The Red Ridge compound was too obvious. The harborside office would have too many witnesses. The abandoned processing facility on the eastern edge had burned two months ago after Knox had extracted its value.

As she moved past the bed, something caught her eye—a small irregularity in the hardwood beneath the frame. Julia dropped to her knees, ignoring the protest from battered ribs as she peered underneath.

Her breath caught.

There, scratched into the floor with what must have been a broken earring post, was a symbol: a crude ship's anchor with the number 7 beside it.

Ivy had left her a message.

Even while being dragged away by Knox's professionals, her brilliant mind had been working, creating a breadcrumb only Julia would recognize. The analysts in the department would see a random scratching, but Julia knew immediately what it meant.

The abandoned shipyard in northeasternPhoenix Ridge—district seven according to city planning maps. Specifically, the former Seraphim shipping terminal that they'd identified as a potential Knox property during their investigation. The same terminal visible from the Oceana Hotel where they'd first met.

Where it had all begun.

Julia traced the marking with her fingertip, her chest tightening. The realization crystallized something inside Julia and hardened her determination into something beyond professional duty. This wasn't just about a witness anymore, not just about testimony or bringing down Knox's organization. This was about Ivy Monroe—brilliant, fearless, and refusing to be a victim even when overpowered.

This was personal in a way nothing in Julia's career had ever been.

She heard Morgan's distinctive two-knock pattern at the door, followed by three rapid taps—their established emergency signal. Julia moved through the apartment with her weapon ready, caution overriding familiarity even with her partner.

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