"THAT WAS FUCKING CLOSE." Chiji breathed, his adrenaline dissipating but bullet wound still burning. Blood seeped through his fingers as he pressed against his shoulder, the sticky warmth a stark reminder of how narrowly they'd escaped.

"Too close," Svetlana gasped, reloading her weapon with hands that betrayed the slightest tremor. Her ice-blonde hair was slicked with sweat, a smudge of blood—not hers—streaked across one high cheekbone. "The Fed back there? Lena Carter—FBI's bloodhound. She never stops hunting. And now she's got your name."

She snapped the magazine into place with practiced precision, the metallic click punctuating her warning.

Chiji's voice climbed, fury and fear tangling into something primal. "You said I was collateral damage—this is a fucking spotlight!" He slammed his palm against the steering wheel, pain shooting through his wounded arm.

"Brooklyn," she snapped back, eyes constantly darting to the mirrors, searching for pursuit. Her body remained coiled tight, like a predator ready to spring. "Your cab's plates—traffic cams, witnesses. She's been on the scent since the warehouse. I didn't choose for her to see you."

"And you didn't bother to mention it?" He took a hard right, tires screaming against asphalt, the Camaro's engine growling in protest. "What else aren't you telling me? What else is waiting to bite me in the ass?"

"Oh for fuck's sake, Chijioke," she hissed, his full name rolling off her tongue with that slight Russian accent that made it sound like both a curse and a caress. "You think this is a game? The Bratva, the ledger, the guns, the car chases—you really believe you can tear through America's biggest city, making noise like this, and they wouldn't be watching?" Her laugh was brittle, sharp enough to cut. "Welcome to the land of the free, where everyone's a suspect."

Chiji's jaw clenched, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. The silence that fell between them was heavy with unspoken accusations, broken only by the rumble of the engine and the distant wail of sirens.

He navigated through the back streets of the Bronx. Each turn took them further from the scene of carnage they'd left behind.

"We're clear," she said, voice low. Her posture relaxed infinitesimally, but her eyes never stopped scanning. "For now."

"For now," Chiji echoed, finding his voice again, killing the engine as they pulled into an abandoned auto yard in Port Morris. The Camaro's headlights cut through the dark garage before fading to black, illuminating rows of stripped cars and rusted parts—a graveyard of metal and forgotten dreams.

His hands lingered on the wheel, Lena Carter's "Chijioke Eneh!" echoing—a target branded on him now.

He turned to face Svetlana, the dim security lights casting harsh shadows across her face, highlighting the razor-sharp edges of her cheekbones. "Port Morris was a shitshow. Your buyer's 'channels' didn't do jack."

She didn't flinch, just unzipped the cash pack, counting stacks with mechanical precision. Her fingers moved with hypnotic fluidity, sorting through the blood money with detached efficiency. "She's safe. That's what matters. Ledger's out of our hands—Dmitry's done."

"Safe?" He barked a laugh, sharp and bitter, shoving the door open. The cold morning air hit him like a slap, clearing the fog of adrenaline and pain. "We're the ones bleeding, running, dodging Feds and Livia's goons. I'm on their fucking list now—thanks to you."

He stepped out, the gravel crunching beneath his Converse. His shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat, a persistent reminder of how quickly this job had spiraled from simple transport to all-out war.

Svetlana stepped out, slamming her door, the sound a gunshot in the quiet yard. She moved with lethal grace, a panther in human form. "You chose this, Chijioke. Back in Brooklyn—my cab, my fight. Remember? You stayed." Her breath formed clouds in the cold morning air, her words hanging between them like smoke. "Nobody forced you. Not then, not now."

"Chose?" He rounded the car. "You fed me half-truths—Rico, the buyer, this 'traitor.' I'm bleeding for your war, and you still won't level with me."

His dark eyes burned into hers, searching for a crack in her icy façade. "Yesterday, I was just a cabbie trying to make rent. Now I've got the FBI, the Bratva, and God knows who else gunning for me, and all you give me are breadcrumbs."

Her eyes met his—ice and fire clashing, her breath visible in the cold. Something shifted in her expression, a calculation made and decision reached. "You want out? Door's open. Walk. Take your cut and disappear." She tossed a stack of bills at his feet—tens of thousands, crisp and heavy, bound in bank wrappers still warm from the exchange. "But if you stay, you're in—all the way. No more questions, no more doubt."

The cash landed with a soft thud, a gauntlet thrown. Blood money, escape money—enough to vanish, enough to start over. Chiji stared at it, then her, his pulse a war drum.

Lagos flashed in his mind—outrunning gangs, surviving on scraps, dreaming of America—freedom always a step ahead, never in hand. The scar on his ribcage itched, a souvenir from his last night in Nigeria when choice was a luxury he couldn't afford. This was his shot—money, a new life—or her fight, her chaos, her pull he couldn't shake.

"Why me?" he asked, voice rough, stepping closer until he could see the flecks of silver in her blue eyes. "You could've ditched me—Brooklyn, the motel, the chop shop. Why drag me deeper?"

She didn't move, didn't blink, but her mask slipped—a flicker of something raw, unguarded. "You're good," she said, soft but firm, the admission clearly costing her. "Smart. Steady behind the wheel—best I've seen. And you don't break. Not yet."

"Not yet," he repeated, a half-grin tugging his lips despite the ache that had settled deep in his bones. "High praise from you."

Her lips twitched, a ghost of a smile that transformed her face, making her look younger, almost vulnerable. "Don't let it go to your head." She turned, pacing the yard, her boots crunching gravel. Her fingers trailed along the hood of a gutted Mustang, leaving streaks in the dust. "But it's more than that. You're not Bratva, not Fed, not Livia's pawn. You're... clean. Untangled. I need that."

"Clean?" He laughed again, darker. "Not anymore. Lena Carter's got my name—Brooklyn tape, my cab. I'm tangled now. Deeper than you know." He touched his wounded shoulder, wincing. "I've got a bullet hole to prove it."

She stopped, facing him, her expression shifting—calculating, then decisive, like a chess player committing to a gambit. "Then hear this, and decide." She stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper, as if the morning might betray them. Her scent—gunpowder, adrenaline, and something distinctly feminine—enveloped him. "The buyer's not just some shadow. She's Nadia Kovalenko—ex-KGB, Dmitry's old rival. Been hunting him since '91—personal, deep. That ledger? It's her kill shot—names, dates, enough to bury him with Interpol, not just the Feds."

Her hand moved to her hip, where her weapon rested, a nervous tell he'd caught before. "Dmitry's empire is built on graves—women trafficked, rivals eliminated, judges and cops bought like cattle. That ledger names them all. It's not just business, Chijioke. It's justice. Cold, bloody justice."

Chiji's breath caught, the name a bombshell. "KGB? Interpol? Jesus, Svetlana—you're playing with giants." He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, the reality of their situation crashing down with new weight. "We're just pawns in a bigger game. Expendable."

"She's paying for freedom," she said, unflinching. "Mine, yours—if you're in. But Livia knows now—someone tipped her. And the Feds—Carter's too good. She'll sniff us out again. She's had my scent for months."

Her eyes narrowed. "We've got less than forty-eight hours to receive Nadia's confirmation. After that, we're on our own."

"Someone," he said, eyes narrowing, connecting dots that had eluded him. "The traitor. You think it's Pavel?"

"Or closer," she murmured, her gaze piercing, searching his. The accusation hung unspoken between them, a test of his reaction. "The timing of Carter's arrival was too perfect. Someone's feeding information—coordinates, routes, schedules. That's the test, Chijioke. You're with me—or you're not. No half-measures. Livia's coming, Carter's closing—we're out of time."

The air thickened, her words a blade at his throat—commit or cut loose. His mind raced—Nadia's stakes, Livia's hunters, Lena's voice branding him. The cash at his feet gleamed, a coward's exit. But her eyes—arctic, fierce, pulling him like gravity—held something else. Trust, fragile as glass, offered in her own jagged way.

He kicked the bills aside, sending them scattering across the gravel, stepping into her space, their breaths mingling. "I'm in," he said, voice steady. "But no more secrets. You level with me—or I'm gone next time. No warnings, no goodbyes. Just gone."

Her smile was slow, dangerous, a predator sizing up an equal. It transformed her face, bringing heat to her eyes that belied her icy reputation.

"Fair." She reached out, fingers brushing his jaw where her safehouse kick had bruised—a touch soft but electric, sealing their pact. "You surprise me, Chijioke Eneh. Most men run when they see the real game."

"I'm not most men," he replied, catching her wrist. Her pulse raced beneath his thumb, betraying the calm she projected. "And I stopped running when I left Lagos. I'm tired of looking over my shoulder."

"Then we move—southwest, still," she said, not pulling away from his touch. "Nadia's got a safehouse in Pennsylvania. Off-grid, stocked. We lay low, plan the endgame. Dmitry and Livia will tear the city apart looking for the ledger—and us."

"Endgame," he echoed, adrenaline spiking despite the quiet. "Livia, Feds, a traitor—sounds like a party."

Her laugh was sharp, real—a rare crack in her steel that revealed glimpses of the woman beneath the assassin's mask. "You'll fit right in." She stepped back, breaking the moment, but something had shifted between them. "I've seen men with military training crack under less pressure than you've handled. Maybe Nigeria breeds them tougher."

"Nigeria doesn't breed anything special," he countered, the mention of home stirring memories he'd buried deep. "You learn fast or you die young. No middle ground."

A distant siren wailed—faint, but enough to snap them back to reality. The brief connection fractured, replaced by the urgency of their situation. She pulled away, grabbing the cash pack, her posture all business again. "Camaro's hot—Feds'll trace it. We ditch it here, grab another ride."

She nodded toward the back of the yard, where a tarp-covered heap sat in the shadows. "Viktor said he'd leave us a clean car. Keys should be waiting."

"The one who handed you the case?"

"Yeah."

"Always running," he muttered, following her to the tarp. He yanked it off with his good arm, revealing a beat-up Toyota, nondescript and forgettable—perfect for disappearing. The keys were tucked in the visor, Viktor's ghost lingering in the prep work. "From one cage to another."

"Always surviving," she corrected, sliding into the passenger seat. Her hand brushed over a hidden compartment beneath the dash, checking for the weapon Viktor would have stashed. Finding it, she relaxed marginally. "Get used to it."

He slid behind the wheel, adjusting the seat to accommodate his longer legs. The familiar position centered him, brought clarity. Behind the wheel, he was in control. It was the one constant in the chaos his life had become.

"Pennsylvania, then," he said, inserting the key. "How far to the safehouse?"

"Four hours, give or take." She pulled out a burner phone, checking a message before crushing it beneath her boot. "Stick to back roads. I-95 will be watched."

The Toyota sputtered awake, less roar than wheeze, and they peeled out, the auto yard fading into the morning. Chiji's arm ached, his name a Fed target, Livia's shadow stalking—but Svetlana's touch burned, her test passed. Forty-eight hours shrank—Nadia's safehouse ahead, enemies circling, trust a tightrope they'd walk together.

As they merged onto a quiet street, Svetlana broke the silence. "What was it? In Brooklyn. You could have walked away then, before any of this. Why didn't you?"

He considered the question, the same one he'd asked himself a dozen times since last night. The truth was complicated, tied to Lagos, to dreams of something more than survival, to the electric charge he'd felt the moment she slid into his cab, danger wrapped in beauty, despite the conscious admonition from his mother replaying in his head.

"Same reason you picked my cab," he finally said, "Instinct." A half-smile curved his lips. "Or maybe I'm just tired of playing it safe."

"Safe is overrated."

"So I'm learning," he replied, pressing the accelerator as they left the city behind, broad daylight swallowing them whole.

For now.

***
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