Page 48 of Break For Me
We don't speak.
He pulls out. Steps back. The cold air rushes into the space where his body was. I feel the absence like an amputation. I pull my sweatpants up. Turn around. Lean against the wall because my legs won't hold me without it.
He’s standing in the center of the room. His sweatpants are pulled up. His chest heaves. His bandaged hand hangs at his side, the gauze spotted with fresh blood—he gripped too hard, reopened something.
His face is unreadable. Not the clinical mask I wear—something heavier. A door slamming shut behind his eyes.
Garrett hasn't moved from his position outside the door. If he heard, he gives no indication. Killian is unconscious on the bench. The cabin is silent except for our breathing and the wind against the metal roof.
I bend to pick up my medical bag. My hand closes around the strap. My fingers brush the shelf above it—the one with the canned goods. The blank-labeled cans.
I pull one down. Turn it in my hand.
The label isn't blank. It’s been bleached by moisture. The ink is running. But up close, I can make out Cyrillic characters. Russian.
I check the next can. Cyrillic. I check the shelf itself—bolted to the wall with hardware-store brackets. The screws are new. The metal is bright against the aged plywood.
I look at the shelf’s underside. A small black box is zip-tied to the bracket. An LED blinks red. Slow. Regular. Metronomic.
A transmitter.
My blood goes cold. Not the gradual chill of the cabin—a sudden, total plunge. The vascular response to catastrophic recognition.
I know what this is. I’ve seen these in the Bratva’s supply caches—the dead drops and forward staging points they use to resupply operatives in the field. Each one has a passivetransmitter that activates when the door is opened. It alerts the nearest handler that the cache has been accessed.
We didn't find shelter. We found a trap. And we’ve been broadcasting our position since we walked through the door.
"Rocco."
He looks at me. Whatever he sees on my face wipes the post-sex blankness from his and replaces it with something sharp and immediate.
I hold up the can. Turn it so he can see the Cyrillic label. Then I point to the blinking LED under the shelf.
His jaw tightens. His hand reaches for the Makarov.
"Get Killian up," he says quietly. "We’re leaving. Now."
The LED blinks. Red, dark, red, dark. A heartbeat in the wall of a room that was never meant to shelter us. A pulse that has been calling out into the dark since we arrived, telling the men in the woods exactly where we are.
I pick up my medical bag. My legs are steady. My hands are steady. The tremor is gone.
Somewhere between the wall and the shelf, between his body and the blinking light, the mechanic came back online.
I don't look at the wall where it happened. I don't look at him. I shoulder the bag and I move.
Chapter Fourteen
ROCCO
I ripthe transmitter off the shelf and crush it under my boot.
The plastic casing snaps with a drycrackthat sounds too loud in the quiet shack. The red LED dies. I grind my heel into the circuit board until I feel the components turn to powder against the rough plywood floor.
It’s a useless gesture. The damage is done. The signal went out the moment we opened the door. Minutes ago. An hour ago. Long enough for every Russian asset within fifty miles to triangulate the frequency and converge on our position.
I leave the plastic debris on the floor. I pick up the Makarov. I check the magazine. Four rounds.
Garrett has the shotgun. Twelve shells left.
