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“Federal Prosecutor Morrone.” I keep my voice low, deadly calm. “Your FBI response team is compromised. Get in now.”
Her eyes widen. Recognition. Not of me personally, but the threat I represent. Unknown man versus known killers. She hesitates, weighing impossible options.
“The FBI dispatch was compromised,” I continue. “The response team being sent isn’t coming to rescue you.”
That does it. She slides into the passenger seat, clutching her briefcase. I accelerate before she’s fully seated, forcing her to grab the door and pull it closed.
“Who are you?” she demands, voice surprisingly steady.
“Cole Bennett, former FBI Witness Security until their politics got good people killed. Currently, private security contractor.” This is the simplest version of the truth. “I met Killian after the FBI hung me out to dry on a case. He offered something they never could, results without red tape.”
I learned that lesson the hard way when my FBI partner was killed because someone higher up leaked our location to save their own career. That’s when Killian found me - drinking myself to death in a dive bar, ready to put my gun in my mouth. He offered me purpose instead of a pension.
“Borsellini assets intercepted your emergency call from inside the Bureau.”
“FBI politics... and intercepted calls? That’s not possible,” she says, but there’s no conviction behind the words.
“The men following you aren’t local muscle. They’re imported specialists. The Borsellini’s don’t use that level of professionalism unless they’re eliminating a critical threat.”
I take a hard right, checking the mirror. The two men have returned to their vehicle and are pursuing, but the distance gives us a temporary advantage.
“How do I know you’re not working for them?” She shifts the briefcase to her lap, one hand gripping the door handle.
Smart woman. Suspicious. Good.
“If I were, you’d already be dead,” I say flatly, then my voice softens slightly. “I’m working with a private security network that’s been tracking the Borsellini operation for months. Your case files are valuable to our investigation.”
Her breathing changes. Faster. Shallower. Processing the implications. “The FBI is compromised?”
“Parts of it. Enough to make standard protection protocols useless for you.”
Headlights appear in my rearview mirror, closing fast. I take another turn, pushing the vehicle harder.
“They’ve found us,” I state, accelerating through a yellow light. “Hang on.”
I slam the wheel hard left, tires screaming against asphalt as we rocket through the intersection. The pursuing headlights swing wide but stay locked on us. Expert driver. Worse, they’re not shooting, which means they want her breathing when they deliver her to Alessio.
My foot crushes the accelerator as we tear through downtown, the engine roaring. Behind us, their headlights slice through the darkness like hunting wolves. They’re closing the gap. In my peripheral vision, I catch Molly clutching the door handle, knuckles white, but her breathing stays controlled. Smart woman. Fear will keep her alive.
“I have to get you off-grid immediately,” I state, taking a sharp turn into a narrow service alley. “Your identity is jeopardized. Every federal safe house within two hundred miles will be compromised within the hour.”
“That’s not possible,” she repeats, but with less certainty.
I kill the headlights and cut the engine, letting momentum carry us deeper into the shadows between buildings. The pursuing vehicle races past the alley entrance, but they’ll double back once they realize they’ve lost us.
“Listen carefully,” I turn to face her fully. “I have contacts who can create a new identity for you, get you somewhere that the Borsellini’s can’t reach. But we must move now, and I need your complete cooperation.”
I hear footsteps at the alley entrance. Someone’s searching methodically, flashlight beam sweeping the blackness.
“Don’t move,” I whisper, leaning across her to open her door. “Follow me. Stay low.”
We slip out of the vehicle, moving silently along the brick wall. I position myself between her and the approaching threat, weapon ready but concealed. The narrow passage forces us close together, her breath warm against my neck as we press into the shadows.
The flashlight beam sweeps closer. I push her against the wall, shielding her body with mine, one hand pressed firmly over her mouth. The sudden contact sends an unexpected charge through my system. Her frame is soft and warm beneath mine, her pulse racing against my palm. Her scent hits me. Something floral mixed with fear and adrenaline, awakening a hunger that has no place in this operation.
Our pursuers pause at the vehicle, muttering to each other. I can make out fragments of conversation, enough to confirm they’re Borsellini’s men. Specialist cleanup crew.
I feel her trembling beneath my hand, but her eyes remain steady, focused. The adrenaline is affecting her differently than most civilians. Instead of paralyzing fear, I see determination. Resolve.
