I was about to say it — mission complete — when Bella's voice snapped in my ear like a whip.
"Contact — I'm hit!"
My stomach dropped.
The feed had cut, but her mic was still active. I could hear movement — a scuffle, fast breathing, footsteps. Then a grunt. Something heavy hitting the ground.
"Bella?!"
No response.
I didn't think. I just ran.
I sprinted to the motorbike parked under the overpass — still gleaming like a panther, silent and ready. I kicked it to life, yanked my helmet on, and twisted the throttle hard.
The tires screamed against the pavement as I launched forward into the night.
My HUD was tracking her location through the drone's residual ping. It had dropped its signal but I still had her — a faint pulsing dot on the edge of the complex, right where she was supposed to exfil. The red dot wasn't moving.
Not good.
I tore through the side streets, leaning hard into the turns. Every second ticked like a gun cocking back. My heart thudded in my throat. This wasn't support anymore. This was rescue.
As I neared the extraction point, I cut the lights and coasted in on inertia. Smoke was rising from the far end of the compound. I spotted Bella through the chain-link — crouched low, arm cradling her ribs, surrounded by two incoming guards with flashlights and rifles. She was trying to stand. She couldn't.
I didn't stop.
I kicked the bike into gear and gunned it straight through the side gate, metal bending around me as I burst through like a battering ram.
The guards turned just in time to catch a full hundred kilos of machine and momentum.
One went flying.
The other staggered back — I jumped off mid-roll and cracked him in the temple with my elbow before he could raise his weapon.
Bella looked up at me, blinking. "Took your time."
"Had to do my hair," I muttered, slipping her arm over my shoulder. "Up you go."
She winced, but pushed through the pain. The drone — still active — shot in from above like a trained falcon, clamped the flash drive tighter in its claws, and slapped against the magnetic plate on my back. It locked into place with a click.
"Thanks for coming back," she muttered, voice low.
"You'd do the same for me."
She gave me a sideways look. "I wouldn't have needed the rescue."
We were halfway to the bike when more headlights spilled into the compound. Another SUV. Two. No sirens. Just silence and power.
"We're out of time," I hissed.
Bella grabbed the back of my jacket and practically dragged herself onto the bike. I jumped on in front, twisted the throttle, and launched us into the night.
"Gun!" she barked, tapping my side.
I reached into the deep seam pockets of my jacket and handed her a pair of compact sidearms. She took them like she'd been waiting all night.
And then — she turned, twisted around on the seat like a cat, and opened fire.
The popping sounds cracked past my ears as she took out one of the SUV headlights. The vehicle jerked sideways. Another shot — and a tire burst with a sharp hiss. They swerved. We didn't stop.
We tore through the edge of the city like fire through paper — weaving in and out of late-night traffic, cutting across empty intersections and narrow alleys. Every light turned red behind us. Every engine sounded like it might be chasing us.
Bella was breathing hard behind me, blood soaking through her side. The drone was still stuck to my back, humming faintly like it was waiting for round two.
Finally, we slipped into downtown — narrow streets, neon lights, too many witnesses. Safe enough for now.
I pulled us into a side alley behind an old ramen bar and killed the engine.
Bella slid off, groaning, and leaned against the wall. I stepped off too, heart still pounding.
She looked at the bike. "We leaving it?"
I pulled a tiny tracking sticker from my glove and slapped it on the undercarriage. "We'll come back for it."
"Smart," she said. "You're getting the hang of this."
"Trying not to die tends to speed up the learning curve."
It was already evening. We ducked into the shadows, ditched the helmets in a dumpster, and pulled spare clothes from the emergency pack strapped to the back of the bike. I yanked on a hoodie, then crouched to check the damage to the drone still clipped to my back. Scuffed, but intact. The flash drive was sealed inside — mission's heart still beating.
Bella leaned against the alley wall, her breathing shallow. The long coat she'd thrown over herself did a decent job of hiding the blood on her side, but not from me. I could see it in the way she moved — tighter, slower.
Then she straightened, limped over, and stopped in front of me.
"Hold still," she said, voice low.
I froze as her fingers brushed my leg — and slipped straight into the thigh pocket of my tactical pants.
She fished out the spare ammo clip I kept there, then paused.
Her hand didn't move.
Neither did I.
It wasn't the ammo she was reaching for anymore — not exactly. Her fingers stayed there, barely touching the fabric, warm even through the suit. When she looked up at me, it was like the whole mission had dropped away. Just for a second.
"What?" I asked, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.
She gave me a look — part smirk, part something I couldn't quite read. "You pack gear like a pessimist."
"I plan like a realist."
She pulled her hand back slowly and turned away without another word, slipping the ammo into a coat pocket.
But something had changed. The silence wasn't empty anymore.
I followed her out of the alley, the city lights blinking overhead. We blended into the crowd — just two people walking through downtown. No one saw the bruises under our clothes, the blood drying beneath her coat, or the drone latched to my back carrying evidence powerful enough to burn a dozen names off the grid.
No one saw the way her hand had lingered.
But I felt it.
And I knew then — this wasn't just a mission anymore.
Not for me.