The parachute opens with a violent jerk that slams Norah's body against Marco's chest.
The screaming wind suddenly quiets. They're floating now, drifting downward in eerie silence broken only by the whisper of nylon and Marco's ragged breathing.
"You okay?" he gasps.
Norah can't answer. Her throat is raw from screaming. Her heart is trying to punch through her ribs.
"Norah! Are you okay?"
"Yeah," she manages. "Yeah, I'm okay."
"Good. Because the landing is going to hurt. Bend your knees when we hit. Let me take most of the impact."
Below them, the landscape resolves into details: fields, roads, scattered buildings. They're aimed at what looks like a cornfield, the stalks tall and dense.
"Brace!" Marco shouts.
They hit hard.
The impact drives the air from Norah's lungs. Her knee slams into something—ground, corn stalk, she can't tell. Pain explodes up her leg.
They tumble, rolling through corn stalks that whip at Norah's face and arms. The parachute drags them another ten feet before Marco manages to unbuckle the harness and they finally stop, tangled in fabric and vegetation.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then Marco groans. "Fuck."
"What's wrong?"
"My ankle." He tries to stand, collapses with a hiss of pain. "It's twisted. Bad."
Norah extracts herself from the parachute harness and crawls over to him. In the moonlight, she can see his ankle is already swelling, the skin discolored.
"Can you walk?"
"Not well."
"Can you run?"
"Definitely not."
That's a problem. Because in the distance, Norah hears something that makes her blood freeze:
Dogs barking.
Marco hears it too. His expression hardens. "They tracked our landing. Probably saw the parachute."
"How is that possible?"
"Thermal imaging. Satellite tracking. Take your pick." He tries to stand again, using Norah's shoulder for support. "We need to move. Now."
They stumble through the cornfield, Marco's weight heavy on Norah, his breathing labored. Every step seems to hurt him more. The barking is getting louder.
Closer.
"There," Marco points toward a structure silhouetted against the night sky. "Barn. If we can make it there—"
They don't finish the thought. Just move, one painful step at a time.
The barn is old, weathered, probably hasn't been used in years. The door hangs half-open. They slip inside just as the dogs' barking reaches a fever pitch.
Inside smells like dust and old hay. A loft extends above them, accessed by a rickety wooden ladder.
"Up," Marco whispers. "Into the loft."
Climbing the ladder with Marco's injured ankle is agonizing. Every rung creaks under their weight. But they make it, collapsing into the hayloft just as lights sweep the ground outside.
Voices. Russian, from the sound of it.
Marco pulls Norah down, both of them lying flat in the hay, barely breathing.
Through gaps in the floorboards, Norah can see three men enter the barn with dogs—large, aggressive animals straining at their leashes. The dogs circle below, sniffing, clearly sensing prey nearby.
One of the men speaks into a radio in Russian. Marco translates in a barely audible whisper:
"He's saying they tracked us to this area. The dogs have a scent. They know we're close."
The radio crackles back. More Russian.
Marco's hand tightens on Norah's arm. "The other guy just said: 'Take the girl alive—she's worth millions. Kill the brother.'"
Norah's heart stops.
Below, the dogs are going crazy now, barking and jumping, trying to reach the loft. It's only a matter of seconds before the men realize where they are.
Marco pulls a small knife from his boot—the only weapon he has. Against three armed men and attack dogs, it's laughable.
But he's ready to fight anyway.
Norah looks at him, this man she barely knows, who's about to die defending her.
"Marco," she whispers. "When Dante asked you to protect me—what did he say exactly?"
Marco keeps his eyes on the Russians below, but his voice is soft: "He said you were the first person who ever made him want to be good instead of just feeling guilty for being bad. He said he'd give anything to have a chance with you. And he said if anything happened to him—" Marco's voice cracks. "—he wanted me to make sure you knew he loved you."
The words hit Norah like a physical blow.
Dante loves her.
Has loved her.
And she might die in this barn before she can tell him she loves him back.
"There's something else," Marco continues, still watching the Russians. "Every night since he met you, he's been carving your name into his arm with a knife. I've seen the fresh cuts. N-O-R-A-H, over and over. That's how obsessed he is with you."
Norah's breath catches. The possessive intensity of it—marking himself with her name, claiming ownership even when they're apart—makes her body respond despite the fear.
She wants to see those scars. Wants to trace her name on his skin with her fingers, her tongue.
Wants to survive this so she can tell him she's his, completely, no reservations.
Below, one of the Russians barks an order. The dogs quiet. The men are regrouping, planning.
Marco shifts slightly, testing his ankle. His face twists with pain.
"I can't run," he admits. "If we have to move fast, I'll slow you down."
"Then we don't run. We outsmart them."
"How?"
Norah's mind is racing. The dogs are tracking scent. If they can confuse the scent—
"Give me your knife," she says.
"What?"
"Just do it."
Marco hands it over, confused.
Before she can second-guess herself, Norah presses the blade to her palm and cuts deep. Blood wells up immediately, bright and warm.
"Jesus Christ!" Marco grabs her wrist. "What are you doing?"
"Creating a distraction." She cuts Marco's palm next, ignoring his protest. "Mix our blood. Create trails. Confuse the dogs."
Understanding dawns on Marco's face. He immediately starts tearing strips from his shirt, soaking them in their combined blood.
"Drop them in different directions," Norah whispers. "Make them think we split up."
Marco drops blood-soaked fabric through gaps in the floor—one piece toward the back of the barn, another toward the side entrance.
The dogs immediately start barking again, pulling in different directions. The Russians argue in their language, voices raised.
Then, miracle of miracles, they split up. Two men and two dogs following one trail. One man and one dog following the other.
The barn goes quiet.
Marco and Norah lie perfectly still, not daring to breathe.
Minutes pass like hours.
Finally, Marco whispers: "They're gone. Let's move."
They climb down from the loft, Marco's ankle screaming with every step. They slip out of the barn through a back door and stumble into the night, moving away from the voices and barking that still echo in the distance.
They walk for what feels like forever—through fields, over drainage ditches, alongside empty roads—before they finally see it:
Sacred Heart Cemetery.
The iron gates are closed, locked for the night. But Marco picks the lock with practiced ease, and they slip inside among the headstones and monuments.
"Emma's grave," Norah says. "We need to find Emma's grave."
They search among the stones, reading names by moonlight. It takes fifteen minutes before Norah finds it:
EMMA LOUISE SUTHERLAND
BELOVED DAUGHTER AND SISTER
1987-2013
Norah's knees buckle. She drops to the ground in front of the stone, hand touching the cold marble like she can feel her sister through it.
And that's when she sees them:
Fresh white roses. Placed within the hour, judging by how new they look.
Someone else has been here.
Recently.
"Marco," she whispers. "Someone knows about this grave."
Marco is already scanning the cemetery, hand on the knife. "Could be a coincidence. Could be—"
A gunshot cracks through the night.
Norah screams.
The cemetery groundskeeper—an elderly man Norah recognizes from past visits—collapses ten feet away, a bullet hole in his chest.
And from the darkness between headstones, a voice calls out:
"Looking for something, Norah?"
A woman steps into view. Blonde hair. Mid-thirties. Jeans and a leather jacket. Holding a smoking gun.
She looks exactly like Emma would look now.
But that's impossible.
Emma is dead.
Emma has been dead for twelve years.
The woman lowers her gun and smiles through tears.
"Hi, little sister," she says. "I'm Emma. I never died. And we need to talk."