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The phone rings twice before someone answers.
“United States Marshals Service, Emergency Response. What is the nature of your situation?”
“This is Federal Prosecutor Molly Morrone, ID number 47-8834. I just witnessed a murder connected to an ongoing RICO case, and the perpetrators are actively hunting me. I need immediate protection.”
“Copy that, Ms. Morrone. Stay on the line while I dispatch units to your location. Can you tell me where you are?”
I give them the intersection, then lean against a brick wall and slide down until I’m sitting on the cold sidewalk. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a strange combination of terror and arousal that I don’t want to examine too closely.
I almost died tonight. Should be dead probably, if not for luck and a well-placed fire escape. But instead of feeling victimized or helpless, I feel... alive. More alive than I have in months of desk work and legal briefs.
The danger thrills me in a way it absolutely shouldn’t. My hands won’t stop shaking. I’ve never been in a life-or-death situation before, and part of me can’t believe I survived. The adrenaline makes everything feel hyperreal.
And that realization scares me more than Alessio Borsellini ever could.
But as I sit in the darkness waiting for U.S. Marshals, who may or may not arrive in time, I can’t shake the feeling that tonight changed everything. That the woman who climbed outthat window isn’t the same one who’s going to climb back into whatever life comes next.
Some part of me is excited to find out who that new woman might be.
Even if she gets me killed in the process.
2
COLE
The emergency frequency crackles to life at 11:47 PM, shattering the quiet of my surveillance post, and I’m already reaching for the headset before the call sign registers. Years in this work teach you to answer first, think later. Most nights it’s background noise while I hunt bigger prey. Prey worth chasing usually knows how to bite back.
Tonight, a woman’s voice cuts through the static and changes everything.
“This is Federal Prosecutor Molly Morrone, ID number 47-8834. I just witnessed a murder connected to an ongoing RICO case, and the perpetrators are actively hunting me. I need immediate protection.”
Her voice sounds steady despite the circumstances. Unwavering. Controlled. But I catch the undercurrent of fear beneath the composure.
Morrone. The name clicks immediately. Lead prosecutor on the Borsellini RICO case, the one Killian warned our network about three weeks ago. His intelligence suggested the family had corrupted federal agents, potentially compromising witness protection protocols.
I check the dispatcher’s response, noting the slight delay before deployment confirmation. Wrong response time. Wrong tone. Wrong protocol sequence.
Someone’s listening who shouldn’t be.
My decision has been made before I consciously think it through. The standard extraction protocol would get her killed. The Borsellini family doesn’t leave witnesses, especially not federal prosecutors with evidence that could dismantle their entire operation.
I lock onto her phone’s GPS signal and plot the fastest route. She’s three blocks from the government building, in a commercial district with minimal security cameras. Smart woman. But not smart enough to evade Borsellini’s hunters for long.
“Asset compromised,” I text to Killian’s secure server. “Implementing Blackout Protocol.”
His response is immediate: “Confirmed. Safe house Delta available.”
I’m already moving, muscle memory taking over as I check my weapon, secure my tactical vest under my jacket, and start my vehicle. If Molly Morrone dies tonight, all that disappears.
And so does our best chance of connecting the family to the larger syndicate Killian’s been tracking.
I spot her six minutes later, huddled in the shadow of a closed storefront. Even from this distance, I can assess her condition, exhausted, frightened, but alert. Her head turns instinctively, scanning for threats. Her hand clutches what appears to be a briefcase against her chest.
Case files. Evidence. Clever.
Two men in dark clothing emerge from an alley half a block behind her. They haven’t spotted her yet, but they’re moving with purpose, checking doorways and shadows. Professional hunters.
I pull alongside the curb, engine idling. When she turns toward the sound, I reach across and push open the passenger door. Even in the dim light, I can see her brown eyes widen as she takes in my size.
