C4 Run

Hands grabbed Ava's arms from behind.

She screamed, a hand clamped over her mouth, and two men hauled her towards the open van, her heels sliding over the concrete.

"Ray!" She kicked and struggled. "Tío!"

Ray stood in the yellow light with both hands over his face, his body shaking as if in terror.

Alessio drove the first man back in a blur of motion before she could finish the word.

A cracking sound, a gasp, and the man's hold around her waist went slack. The second man turned and swept at her, but she dropped down and drove her shoulder into his stomach, and they both went against the side of the van. Ava wriggled free and braced herself against a pillar, the gun still in her hand, the fact that she had it forgotten.

"Ava!" Alessio called from somewhere behind her. "Back to the car!"

A third man stepped free into the parking garage from the mouth of the van, a knife in his hand.

She saw the glint of it before Alessio did.

"Behind you!"

Too late, Alessio turned. The knife caught his side, and he gave a sound that was almost recognition in her own ribs, something dark spreading over his shirt.

Fire burned in her gut.

She raised the gun in both hands and squeezed the trigger.

Thunder sounded, and the van's front tyre blew out, the whole vehicle sagging with a long, hissing sound. The man with the knife flung himself to the ground. Distant echoes still sounded where they should not.

"The next one isn't a tyre!" Her voice shook, but the barrel stayed steady.

No one moved, and Alessio was at her side in three long strides, one hand on his side, the other closing on her arm, his eyes alight with something that scared her.

"Ten minutes ago, you pointed that at me," he said breathlessly. "Now you shoot for me."

"Shut up and walk."

They ran.

Ray's voice was echoing behind them across the parking area. "Ava! Ava, please, I'm sorry!"

She didn't turn, knowing that if she did, she would stop.

The black sedan was waiting in the third row of cars, and Alessio fumbled with the key ring, blood on his fingers. She seized them and shoved him towards the driver's seat.

"I'm driving."

"You don't know the—"

"Sit down."

He did. The engine roared, and they rocketed up the ramp into the rain, scattering the city lights with red and white streaks. In the rear-view mirror, she saw headlights from the garage exit swerve out into the road and disappear as she veered off to the right.

She drove until the road thinned, until the lights were distant smudges, until the only sounds in her ears were the swish of the wipers and his shallow breathing.

She turned into a narrow alley behind a shuttered bakery and killed the engine.

Silence.

Rain pattered on the roof.

Her hands shook on the wheel.

"Show me."

"It's nothing."

"Alessio."

He lifted his shirt.

The cut was long and deep on his ribs. Her stomach twisted. Blood soaked his trousers and the seat of the car.

"That's not nothing."

"I've had worse."

"Shut up."

She pulled the short sleeve of her blouse over her hand, pressed it into the gash hard, and drew a breath, short and fast, through her nose. He drew a sharp breath as well, his whole body stiffening under her hand.

His skin was hot, his muscle tensed against her palm, and she felt each shallow, short breath until she was holding her own.

"Why did you step in front of me?" she whispered.

"I didn't. I was slow."

"You weren't slow."

He went silent.

"You moved the second he lifted the knife. I saw you." Her voice broke. "I'm the one who's supposed to want you dead."

"I know."

"So why?"

His hand came up to cover hers on the injury, his fingers slick and warm.

Neither of them pulled away, but he pressed her hand against his skin, as though he needed her there.

"Because I would rather it was me," he said quietly.

The words hovered between them.

The windows were misting over, the alley lit now only by the red glow of a sign across the street, falling over his face, his lips, his pulse in his throat. He was close enough that she could count the breaths that left his lungs, that she could feel the warmth of them against her cheek.

"You pointed a gun at my chest," he said, "and told me to stay still. And I wanted to. God help me, Ava, I wanted to stand there and let you."

"Don't."

"I've never wanted anyone to see me. Not like this." His thumb moved against her skin. "You looked right at me, and I didn't have to hide."

Her heart beat against her ribs. She should have pulled away. She told her hand to move, and it didn't.

His forehead pressed into hers. He closed his eyes. His breath shuddered once, as though something deep in his chest had broken loose. She could taste the rain on him, and iron, and something warm beneath.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered.

She didn't.

His lips hovered an inch from hers. Half an inch, and she felt the heat of him, her fingers curling uselessly in his shirt.

The letter crinkled in her other hand.

Do not trust Alessio Vitale.

She forced herself back so hard she knocked her shoulder against the door.

"I can't." Her chest heaved. "I don't know who you are. I don't know what you did to him."

Alessio opened his eyes, and for a fraction of a second, the mask slipped and the young, vulnerable boy looked back at her.

"Neither do I anymore," he said.

His phone vibrated in his jacket.

They both froze.

It vibrated again, a long, steady vibration in the leather of the seat. Alessio's face was suddenly drained of blood. He tried to feel it out of his pocket, his fingers fumbling and shaking, and he winced.

"Don't," he said.

Ava reached over him and pulled it free.

The little screen lit up, a brief, brilliant rectangle in the dark car. A message, one line of text, over a grey photo of a chair.

Incoming call: MARCUS.

Her breath left her lungs.

Her father's name, on his phone, ringing from his jacket.

"Don't answer it," Alessio whispered.