Footsteps thundered down the stairs.
I didn't think. I acted.
Hooking Maxwell's arm over my shoulder, I hauled him to his feet. He was heavy—too heavy—but adrenaline made me stronger than I'd ever been.
"There's a safe room," he rasped, his voice strained. "Behind the bookshelf. Second panel from the left."
I half-dragged, half-carried him across the hallway as the footsteps grew louder. My hands were slick with his blood, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst.
We reached the bookshelf. I slammed my hand against the second panel.
Nothing.
"Press harder," Maxwell growled through gritted teeth.
I shoved with both hands.
The shelf clicked, then swung inward, revealing a narrow passage.
I pulled Maxwell inside just as voices erupted in the hallway behind us.
"Check every room! He can't have gone far!"
The bookshelf sealed shut with a soft hiss, plunging us into darkness.
For a moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing.
Then emergency lighting flickered on—dim red strips along the floor, casting everything in shadow.
We were in a small room, barely bigger than a closet. Concrete walls. A single metal chair. A table with a laptop and what looked like surveillance monitors.
And guns. So many guns.
"Sit," I ordered, guiding Maxwell to the chair.
He collapsed into it, his face pale, jaw clenched against the pain.
I grabbed a first-aid kit from a shelf—of course there was one here—and tore it open.
"This is the second time I've had to patch you up," I muttered, hands shaking as I cut away his blood-soaked shirt. "You really need to stop getting shot."
"Noted," he said through gritted teeth.
The wound was in his shoulder this time. The bullet had gone clean through—thank God—but the bleeding was bad.
I worked fast, pressing gauze to the entry wound, then the exit. Maxwell hissed but didn't pull away.
"Who were they?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
"Arrow Society enforcers." His eyes were dark, shadowed with pain. "They know I'm here. Which means we're running out of time."
"Time for what?"
"To get the ledger to the right people before they kill me for it."
I secured the bandage with tape, my fingers brushing his skin. Even now, even covered in blood and surrounded by danger, the touch sent heat curling through me.
Focus, Mia.
"Where is it?" I asked. "The ledger?"
Maxwell's eyes locked on mine. For a long moment, he didn't answer.
Then: "Safe deposit box. Downtown. But I can't get to it now. Not like this." He gestured to his shoulder. "They'll be watching every exit, every street. The second I step outside, I'm dead."
"Then what do we do?"
"We don't do anything." His voice hardened. "You stay here until I figure out—"
"No." I cut him off, surprising both of us. "You said it yourself. I'm in this now. And you're in no condition to do anything alone."
"Mia—"
"I can get the ledger." The words spilled out before I could stop them. "They're looking for you, not me. I can slip out, get to the bank, and bring it back."
Maxwell stared at me like I'd lost my mind. "Absolutely not."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll get yourself killed!" His voice rose, then he winced, pressing a hand to his shoulder. "You have no idea what these people are capable of."
"I know they shot you twice." I leaned closer, my eyes meeting his. "I know they'll kill you if we don't do something. And I know I'm the only option you have right now."
Silence stretched between us.
On the monitors behind him, I could see grainy black-and-white footage of the mansion. Men in tactical gear moving through rooms, overturning furniture, searching.
One of them kicked in the door to the room where I'd been sleeping.
My duffel bag lay in the corner.
The man picked it up, rifling through it. Then he pulled out his phone.
"They found her things," Maxwell muttered, his jaw tight. "They know you're here now. Which means you're already a target."
My stomach dropped.
"All the more reason to finish this," I said, forcing steel into my voice. "Tell me where the bank is. Tell me what I need to do."
Maxwell closed his eyes, his jaw working like he was fighting an internal war.
Finally, he opened them.
"You're insane."
"Maybe." I held his gaze. "But you don't have a choice."
Twenty Minutes Later
Maxwell had given me everything I needed: the bank address, the safe deposit box number, a key card, and a code phrase to use if anyone questioned me.
He'd also given me a gun.
"Do you know how to use this?" he asked, pressing the cold metal into my hand.
I stared at it, my pulse racing. "Point and shoot, right?"
His expression darkened. "Safety's here. Don't touch the trigger unless you're ready to kill someone. And if you have to use it—" His eyes bored into mine. "Don't hesitate. These people won't."
I nodded, tucking the gun into the waistband of my jeans, hidden beneath my jacket.
"There's a service exit through the tunnels," Maxwell said, pulling up a map on the laptop. "It leads to the alley two blocks over. They won't be watching it—not yet."
"And when I get back?"
"Text this number." He scribbled it on a scrap of paper. "I'll guide you in remotely. Do not come back if you think you're being followed. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
Maxwell grabbed my wrist, his grip fierce. "Mia. If something goes wrong—if they catch you—don't tell them anything. Not about me, not about the ledger. Just run."
"I won't get caught."
"If you do—"
"I won't." I pulled my hand free, meeting his intensity with my own. "I'll be back in an hour. Just… don't die while I'm gone."
His lips twitched—almost a smile. "I'll try."
The tunnel was exactly where Maxwell said it would be—a narrow passage behind a false wall in the safe room, leading down into darkness.
I followed it with only my phone's flashlight to guide me, my footsteps echoing in the confined space.
Every shadow felt like a threat. Every sound made my heart lurch.
But I kept moving.
Finally, I reached a rusted metal door. I pushed it open—
And stepped into the alley.
Cold air hit my face. City sounds rushed in—cars, voices, life continuing like the world wasn't ending.
I pulled my hood up and started walking, keeping my head down, my hand near the gun.
Don't look suspicious. Just another college student walking through the city.
The bank was fifteen blocks away. I made it in twenty minutes, my legs burning, my nerves screaming.
The building was massive—glass and steel, polished and pristine. Security guards stood at every entrance.
I took a breath and walked inside.
The lobby was busy—people in suits rushing past, the hum of conversation filling the space.
I approached the front desk, forcing confidence I didn't feel.
"I need to access a safe deposit box," I said to the clerk, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No, but—" I slid the key card across the counter. "I have authorization."
She scanned it, her brow furrowing. Then she looked up at me. "ID?"
My heart sank. Maxwell hadn't said anything about needing ID.
"I—I don't have it with me. But I have the code phrase."
Her expression remained neutral. "I'm sorry, but without proper identification—"
"The arrow never misses its mark," I said quickly, reciting the phrase Maxwell had given me.
The clerk froze. Her eyes widened, just slightly.
Then she nodded. "Third floor. Vault seven. Someone will meet you there."
The elevator ride felt like an eternity.
When the doors opened, a man was waiting—tall, gray-haired, his suit immaculate. His eyes swept over me, assessing.
"You're not Mr. Cross," he said.
"No. But he sent me."
"Why?"
"Because he couldn't come himself."
The man's expression didn't change. "Show me the card."
I handed it over. He studied it, then me.
"Follow me."
He led me through a maze of corridors until we reached a heavy steel door. He unlocked it, revealing rows of safe deposit boxes.
"Number 347," he said.
I found it. Slid the key into the lock.
It clicked open.
Inside was a single black folder. Thick. Heavy.
I pulled it out, my hands trembling.
"Don't open it here," the man said quietly. "And don't trust anyone."
I looked up sharply. "What?"
But he was already walking away.
I clutched the folder to my chest and headed back to the elevator, my pulse racing.
I did it. I actually did it.
The elevator doors opened—
And I froze.
Standing in the lobby, scanning the crowd, were two men in dark suits.
Arrow Society.
One of them turned—
And his eyes locked on mine.
Recognition flashed across his face.
"There!" he shouted.
I bolted.
Shoved through the crowd, ignoring the startled cries, the hands reaching to stop me.
The gun pressed against my spine. The folder clutched to my chest.
I burst through the exit doors and into the street.
Behind me, footsteps pounded.
"Stop her!"
I ran harder than I'd ever run in my life, weaving through pedestrians, ducking into alleys.
My phone buzzed. I risked a glance.
Maxwell: Where are you?
I couldn't text back. Not while running.
A black SUV screeched around the corner ahead of me.
No.
I veered left, down a side street. My lungs burned. My legs screamed.
Another SUV cut me off from behind.
I was trapped.
The men closed in, their faces cold, professional.
"Hand over the ledger," one of them said, his voice flat.
My hand moved to the gun.
"Don't," he warned. "You'll be dead before you pull the trigger."
My heart hammered. My mind raced.
Don't hesitate.
Maxwell's voice echoed in my head.
These people won't.
I pulled the gun.
And fired.