CHAPTER 4
THE BLOOD THAT SPEAKS
The underground garage smelled of damp concrete and old gasoline. Dim lights flickered like dying fireflies overhead. Lena's pulse thundered in her ears as she ran beside the rider, their footsteps echoing through the cavernous space.
The figure at the far end didn't move — didn't even sway.
Just watched.
"How does he *know* we're here?" Lena whispered.
"He's not alone," the rider muttered.
He tugged her behind a concrete pillar. Lena pressed her back against it, the cold biting through her clothes. The rider peeked out, gun already drawn.
A gun.
She stared at him. "Who the hell *are* you?"
"Later," he said. "Stay low."
Lena's breathing turned ragged. She fought to swallow the panic clawing up her throat.
"This wasn't supposed to happen tonight," she said. "I was supposed to meet with that PI—"
"That *detective* was dead before you ever walked out your door."
Lena froze.
"What?"
"He never made it to the café. They killed him this afternoon."
Her stomach dropped.
"Why didn't you tell me?!"
"Because if you panicked in the open, we'd both be corpses in the Seine right now."
The harshness in his voice felt like a slap — but the logic was terrifyingly real.
Lena swallowed hard. "Who are they? What do they want from me?"
The rider looked at her — really looked — as if weighing whether she could handle the truth.
"You're not being hunted because of who you are now," he said quietly. "You're being hunted because of *who you were born to be*."
Before she could question him, a sudden metallic clang echoed through the garage. Something rolled toward them — stopping only a few meters away.
A flash grenade.
"Down!" he shouted.
The explosion wasn't fire — it was light. Blinding white. A silent scream of brilliance that seared her vision. Lena staggered, disoriented, ears ringing.
She felt the rider grab her arm — drag her — but she couldn't see.
"Keep moving!" he ordered.
They stumbled deeper into the garage, Lena half-blind. She heard footsteps — fast, coordinated. Three, maybe four people.
Not amateurs.
Killers.
Her vision blurred in waves. Shapes swam in darkness. Then—
Gunshots.
Sparks flew as bullets ricocheted off the concrete. The rider fired back, pulling Lena behind a pillar. She fell to her knees, breath shuddering.
"This is insane," she whispered. "This can't be my life."
"It became your life the moment you read that letter," he said.
Lena remembered the envelope shoved under her hotel door. Her mother's handwriting on the front.
But her mother had been dead for ten years.
"I don't even know what the letter means," she said. "It was only three lines—"
"Exactly," he said grimly. "Three lines that could burn governments to the ground."
She stared at him.
"You're telling me my mother—"
"—created something that nations would kill to control," he finished. "And she left the key with you."
Bullets slammed into the pillar. Dust rained onto them.
Lena felt her chest tighten. "What did she create? What do they think I know?"
He looked at her with a strange mix of sympathy and urgency.
"Your mother wasn't a diplomat… nor a philanthropist. That was the part the world was allowed to see. Underneath—"
He leaned closer.
"She created an intelligence network that operated above governments. Independent. Untouchable. Code name: *VESPERA*."
Lena's breath hitched.
Her mother? A mastermind?
"It went offline the night she died," he continued. "But someone out there believes you know where her final file is."
"I don't!" Lena cried. "I don't know anything!"
"That doesn't matter anymore. They believe you do."
Silence stretched between them — raw and frightening.
Then—
The footsteps came again. Closer. Calculated.
"They're surrounding us," the rider whispered.
Lena's mind raced. "What now?"
He smirked — a cold, dangerous curve of his lips.
"Now we stop running."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim black device.
Sleek. Military-grade. Unrecognized.
Lena stared. "What is that?"
"A calling card."
He pressed a button.
A low vibration hummed through the concrete floor… then grew… then became a rumbling thunder from below.
Lena's eyes widened. "What did you—"
The floor beneath the figure at the far end suddenly collapsed, a hidden trapdoor dropping him into darkness. Two more attackers darted back, shouting in a language she couldn't place — Slavic? Maybe Balkan.
"Come on," the rider said. "Backup will arrive any second."
"Backup?! You have backup? Who sent you?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he led her toward a rusted metal door hidden behind a stack of abandoned crates. He punched in a code on a keypad so old it looked like it belonged in a Cold War bunker.
The door clicked open.
Beyond it lay a narrow corridor lit with red security bulbs — descending deeper underground.
"Where does this lead?" she asked.
He glanced at her.
"To the truth," he said. "And to someone who's been waiting a long time for you."
"Who?"
He hesitated — for the first time.
Then he whispered:
"Your mother's oldest enemy."
Lena's heart slammed against her ribs.
"And the only person left alive who knows why you're being hunted."
The metal door swung shut behind them with a final, echoing thud.