Page 76 of Break For Me
My right arm wraps around his waist. My left presses against his back—the splinted hand, the damaged hand. It can't grip but it can press. It can hold. It can lay its weight against his spine and sayI'm here.
His forehead drops against mine. Our breathing syncs—ragged, fast.
"The shield," I repeat. Quiet. Testing the word.
"The shield," he says. "You position. You absorb. You protect. And I stand behind you and fix whatever breaks."
My hand tightens on his waist. My splinted hand presses harder against his back.
The burner phone rings.
Not his phone—the one Rory gave him. The screen shows the contact name: Elena.
The ringing fills the basement gym. I step back. My eyes fix on the phone.
He answers.
"Adrian?" Her voice. High, rapid. Vocal cords constricted by adrenaline. "Adrian, there's someone outside."
His face goes blank. The clinical mask drops into place like a blast shield.
"Where are you?"
"The house. The one in Connecticut. There's a car parked on the street. Black sedan. It's been there since I woke up. Two men inside. Just sitting there. Watching."
Black sedan. The same vehicle from the terminal footage.
"Elena, listen to me. Where are the men who brought you to the house? The security detail?"
"They went to get groceries. They said they'd be back in an hour. Adrian, who are these people? What's happening?"
The seventy-two hours was a lie. The note card was theater. Dmitri already knew where she was. The note was a distraction, designed to focus our attention on a timeline while the real operation moved on a different clock.
"Elena." His voice is level. Clinical. "Lock the doors. Close the curtains. Go to the room with the fewest windows and stay there.Do not open the door for anyone except the men who brought you there. I'm coming."
"Adrian, I'm scared?—"
"I know. I'm coming. Lock the doors now."
The line goes silent. A deadbolt engaging. A curtain being drawn. The small, muffled sounds of a twenty-two-year-old girl who doesn't understand why men in a black sedan are watching her house.
He lowers the phone. I'm already moving—toward the table, toward the Glock. I pick it up with my right hand. I hook the sight on the table edge. Rack the slide. Pick up the magazine with my damaged left hand—the ugly, asymmetric grip. I guide it into the mag well. The catch clicks.
My hand is shaking—not the fine tremor of nerve damage but the gross tremor of a man forcing a damaged system past its tolerance.
"How far is Connecticut?" I ask.
"Two hours."
I chamber the round. One-handed. The slide racks clean.
"We have less than that."
Chapter Twenty-Two
ROCCO
Adrian drives.I load.
