Wade woke because the couch stopped smelling like her.

He’d fallen asleep facing the back cushions, breathing in the ghost of vanilla from where her hair had brushed against them hours before. Now the scent was gone, replaced by the flat, cold smell of empty room. His eyes opened to the dark living room. The digital clock on the cable box read 1:47 AM. The silence was wrong. It was a held-breath silence.

He shifted, the leather creaking under him. A floorboard groaned—but not from his weight. The sound came from the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

Wade went still, his hand sliding from under the blanket to the service weapon on the floor beside the couch. His fingers wrapped around the grip. Another soft step. Then the distinct, metallic click of a door handle being tested—the bathroom door.

They were inside.

Adrenaline hit his system, cold and sharp. He’d bolted the front door. Checked the windows. He’d slept like a civilian. Like a man who’d just had sex and let his guard down. The consequence was in his hallway.

He rolled off the couch in one silent motion, landing in a crouch behind it. He peeked over the back. Two shadows moved against the dim light filtering through the bedroom blinds. One was tall, lanky. The other broader, shoulders filling the hallway. They were methodical, checking rooms. They hadn’t reached the master where Truenai slept.

Wade’s mind raced. Engage, or extract? Two unknowns, potentially armed, in a confined space with her. The deputy protocol screamed in his head: hold position, call for backup. The man who’d kissed her in a breakroom and fucked her against a refrigerator had a different priority. Get her out.

The broader man pointed toward the living room. Wade ducked down. He heard the whisper of fabric on drywall as they moved.

He counted their steps. Three. Four. They were clearing the open archway into the living room. He had seconds.

Wade stood up.

“Evening,” he said, his voice a graveled cut through the dark.

The two figures froze. The tall one was closest, ten feet away. Wade saw the glint of a pistol in his hand. No time.

Wade fired twice. The shots were deafening in the enclosed space. The tall man cried out, stumbling back into his partner. Wade was already moving, vaulting over the couch, charging them while they were tangled.

He barreled into the broader man, driving him into the wall. Plaster cracked. The man grunted, bringing an arm up to club at Wade’s head. Wade took the blow on his shoulder, driving his own knee up into the man’s gut. The air left him in a whoosh.

The first man was on the floor, clutching his leg, his pistol skittered away. The second recovered fast, grabbing Wade’s wrist, twisting the gun. They struggled, a violent, silent dance of strength. Wade headbutted him. Felt the crunch of cartilage. The man’s grip loosened. Wade wrenched his arm free and pistol-whipped him across the temple. He dropped like a sack.

Breathing hard, Wade stepped back. The first intruder was trying to crawl toward his weapon. Wade kicked it away, then aimed his own gun at the man’s face. “Don’t.”

The man stopped, panting, his eyes wide with pain and fear. Dark blood soaked his pant leg.

The master bedroom door flew open. Truenai stood there, backlit by the bedside lamp she’d turned on. She wore one of his t-shirts. It drowned her. Her face was pale, her eyes huge, taking in the scene: the two men on the floor, Wade standing over them, his bare chest heaving, the gun in his hand.

“Get your shoes. Now,” Wade said, not looking at her. His voice left no room for question.

She disappeared. Wade kept his gun trained. He could hear her moving, the frantic rustle of fabric. He bent, quickly patting down the conscious intruder. No ID. A cheap burner phone. He pocketed it. He checked the other. Same.

Truenai emerged, her shoes on, her own small bag clutched to her chest. She’d pulled jeans on under the t-shirt. Her eyes were on the blood.

“Walk,” Wade commanded, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the back kitchen door. He didn’t look back. They’d come for her. He’d left a trail. The safe house was blown.

He unbolted the back door and pushed her out into the cold night air. The sedan Anya had left them was parked in the narrow driveway. “Get in the passenger side.”

He went to the driver’s side, using the key fob to unlock it. He slid in, started the engine, and threw the car into reverse before Truenai had even fully closed her door. He backed down the driveway, tires squealing as he hit the street.

“Your shirt,” Truenai said, her voice shaky.

He glanced down. In the green glow of the dashboard lights, he saw the smears of blood across his ribs and stomach. Not his. The broader man’s nose. The coppery smell filled the car.

“It’s not mine.”

“You killed them?”

“No.” He took a sharp turn, his eyes constantly checking the mirrors. “Winged one. Knocked the other out. They’ll talk.”

“They found us.”

“Yeah.” The word was bitter. A failure. He’d slept. He’d slept after being inside her, after letting his control dissolve. The cost was two men in the hallway and the only safe place gone. “They found us because I got comfortable.”

She was silent for a long moment, watching the dark streets whip by. “Where are we going?”

“Away.” He had no destination. Protocol was to call Reed, rendezvous at a secondary location. But the burner phone in his pocket felt like a trap. His own phone was back on the couch. Compromised.