Contact

The knife is at his throat before he finishes climbing through the window.

One second I'm pressed against the wall in the dark, adrenaline spiking, waiting for whoever found me to show themselves. The next, I'm behind him, blade against his carotid, my free hand fisted in the back of his tactical vest.

"Don't move."

He doesn't. Smart.

"Nice reflexes," he says. American accent. Calm, like having a knife to his throat is a minor inconvenience.

"Get off me."

"I'm here to save your life."

"I've been saving my own life for three weeks." I press the blade harder. Feel his pulse against the edge. Steady. Too steady. "You're late."

He's bigger than me. A lot bigger. If he wanted to break free, he probably could. But he doesn't try. Just stands there in the dark of the abandoned warehouse, letting me hold him at knifepoint like we have all the time in the world.

"Sierra Walsh," he says. "Investigative journalist. Two Emmys, Pulitzer finalist. Currently in possession of evidence that half the arms dealers in this hemisphere would kill for." A pause. "That about right?"

I don't answer.

"I'm Lieutenant Commander Logan West. US Navy. My team was sent to extract you." Another pause. "What's left of it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Means we were compromised on approach. I lost contact with my men two hours ago. I made it here alone."

"How convenient."

"Nothing about tonight has been convenient." His voice doesn't change pitch, doesn't rise with frustration. Just that same flat calm. "You can keep the knife at my throat if you want. But eventually you're going to have to decide whether to trust me or slit my windpipe. And I should tell you, the second option is harder than you'd think."

I weigh my options. Run the numbers on a man who hasn't flinched.

Three weeks I've been running. Three weeks since Dmitri was shot in the head two feet from me, his blood still warm on my face when I grabbed the evidence and ran. Three weeks of hiding in basements and abandoned buildings, moving every night, trusting no one.

The Americans were supposed to come. Sarah said they were sending someone. But then Sarah went dark too, and I stopped expecting rescue.

Now this man is here, speaking perfect English, knowing my name, claiming to be Navy.

He could be lying. He could be Network, sent to find me and finish the job.

But the Network wouldn't bother with this. They'd have shot me through the window.

"If I let you go," I say slowly, "you're going to turn around. Slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them."

"Fair enough."

I release him. Step back. He turns.

Even in the darkness, I can make out his shape. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Built for damage. He's dressed in tactical black, loaded with enough hardware to start a small war, but he keeps his hands out at his sides. Showing me he's not a threat.

Not a threat. Right.

"ID," I say.

He reaches slowly into a pocket. Pulls out a card. Holds it up.

I can't see it in the dark. "Got a light?"

"Using a light in a hostile city seems unwise."

"I'm holding a knife and you're asking for a handshake. We're past wise."

A low sound, almost a laugh. He pulls out a small penlight, keeps it shielded, clicks it on just long enough for me to see the military ID. Lieutenant Commander Logan West. The photo matches the man in front of me, square-faced, gray-eyed, looking about as welcoming as a closed fist.

The light clicks off.

"Satisfied?"

"Not even close." I lower the knife but don't put it away. "What happened to your team?"

"Enemy patrol caught us on approach. We split up to draw them off. I made it through. The others..." He doesn't finish. "I haven't been able to raise them on comms."

"Dead?"

"Unknown."

Unknown. Military for probably, but I won't say it.

"So the extraction is compromised."

"The approach was compromised. I'm here. You're alive. The extraction can still happen, we just need to find another route out."

"And how long will that take?"

"Unknown."

I'm starting to hate that word.

"Best estimate," I press.

"Seventy-two hours. Maybe more. I need to establish contact with my backup, find a path through the patrol grid, arrange for a pickup." He studies me in the darkness. "Can you survive seventy-two more hours?"

"I've survived three weeks."

"Then you're tougher than you look."

"I look exactly as tough as I am." I slide the knife into the sheath at my thigh. "What's the plan?"

"First, we secure this location. Then I make contact with my command. Then we figure out how to get you and your intel to the extraction point."

"The intel doesn't leave my person."

"Understood."

"I mean it. It stays with me. Always. If you try to take it..."

"Ms. Walsh." His voice is still calm, but there's an edge to it now. "I'm not here for the evidence. I'm here for you. The intel is secondary."

"The intel is the story that could bring down a global weapons trafficking network. It's not secondary."

"To you, maybe. To me, you're the primary objective. Everything else is extra." He moves past me, starts checking windows. "Now are we going to stand here arguing priorities, or are we going to secure this building before someone else finds us?"

I watch him work. Check windows, test boards, map exits. He moves like he's done this a thousand times before. Professional. Efficient.

Dangerous.

Three weeks ago, I would have trusted anyone who showed up speaking English. Now I trust no one. Not even the Navy SEAL checking my perimeter like I'm something worth protecting.

But I don't have a lot of options.

"The basement," I say. "It's more defensible. I've been sleeping down there."

He glances back at me. In the dim light from a distant streetlamp, I catch his profile in the glow, sharp-edged and watchful.

"Show me."

I lead him down.

The basement is exactly what it sounds like, a concrete box with no windows, one entrance, and enough abandoned machinery to provide cover if someone comes through the door shooting. I've set up in the far corner behind a rusted conveyor belt. Sleeping bag, water bottles, a pile of rations I've been rationing for days.

He takes it in with a sweep of his eyes. "You set this up?"

"No one else here to do it."

"Defensible position. Good sight lines. Multiple points of cover." He sounds almost impressed. "You've done this before."

"I've been a war correspondent for eight years. You learn things."

"Apparently."

He settles against the opposite wall, far enough away that I don't feel crowded. Pulls out a radio, tries to raise someone. Static. Tries a different frequency. More static.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing." He sets the radio down but doesn't look worried. "Comms have been spotty since we entered the city. Too much interference. I'll try again at the next check-in window."

"When's that?"

"Oh-three-hundred."

Three in the morning. Four hours from now.

"You should sleep," he says.

"You first."

"I don't sleep on mission."

"Then neither do I."

His head turns toward me. I can sense his attention even in the darkness.

"You've been awake for how long?"

"I don't see how that's your business."

"It's my business because exhaustion gets people killed. You need rest. I'll keep watch."

"And I'm supposed to trust you enough to close my eyes?"

"You trusted me enough to show me your hiding spot."

"That was tactical. This is different."

"How?"

I don't have an answer for that. Or rather, I do. Sleeping means vulnerability. Giving up control. Trusting that he won't kill me while I'm unconscious. And I haven't trusted anyone that much in three weeks.

"Get some sleep," he says again. Softer this time. "I didn't come all this way to let you die because you were too stubborn to rest."

"I'm not stubborn."

"You held a knife to a Navy SEAL's throat and interrogated me for ten minutes before accepting that I might be here to help. You're stubborn."

"I'm careful."

"That too." He adjusts his position against the wall. "Sleep, Ms. Walsh. We've got a long three days ahead of us."

I don't want to admit he's right. Don't want to give him that.

But my body is screaming. Three weeks of running, hiding, barely sleeping. Three weeks of waiting for help that never came. Now that it's here, or something claiming to be help, my adrenaline is crashing hard.

I pull the sleeping bag around me. Don't zip it, need to be able to move fast if necessary.

"If you try anything..."

"You'll slit my throat. I remember."

"Just so we're clear."

"Crystal."

I close my eyes. Tell myself I won't actually sleep, just rest. Just for a few minutes.

The last thing I hear before unconsciousness pulls me under is the soft click of him checking his weapon.

Protecting the perimeter.

Protecting me.

I'm not sold yet.

But I'm too tired to fight.