Page 54 of Rebel
By the time we reach the bikes, the warehouse is on fire, literally. Flames lick the broken rafters, painting the smog orange.
Rebel looks back once. “He was trying to save me.”
“Yeah,” I say, swinging onto my bike. “And now it’s our turn.”
We don’t talk for miles. Just engines and rain. By the time the city’s glow rises again, Bones’ voice is still in my head.Keep her breathing.The words pound like a heartbeat.
Rebel rides a few feet ahead, and every spray of water off her tires looks like smoke from a grave we dug too soon.
When we finally kill the engines outside Divine’s safehouse, she doesn’t move. Neither do I. She just stares at her reflection in a puddle until the rain distorts it.
“He knew he wasn’t coming back,” she says quietly.
“Yeah.”
She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing blood and rain. “Then why does it still feel like we left him?”
“Because we did.” That’s the truth neither of us will say again. We head inside without another word.
Two hours later, Divine’s safehouse looks like missioncontrol for chaos. Monitors flicker with satellite feeds, encrypted logs, and the kind of numbers that make ordinary people pretend the world’s fair.
Divine types with fury. “Bones was right. Calloway Holdings is the core. They’re laundering through private investments of charity endowments, auctions, and one gala tonight hosted by their VP of financial compliance.”
“Where?” Rebel asks.
“Downtown. The Wilshire Regency Hotel.” Divine’s tone hardens. “Private ballroom on the twenty-third floor, networked to the executive suites by a service elevator. That’s your window.”
French whistles. “Well, sugar, you clean up better than most criminals I know.”
Rebel ignores her. “You think the banker’s files will prove the Vultures’ tie-in?”
“Not think,” Divine says. “Know. The access terminal’s in his suite. Physical entry only. No remote hacks.”
I exhale. “So we need badges, a cover, and an invitation.”
French grins. “Lucky for you, I know a guy who owes me for not leaking his sex tape.” She tosses two envelopes across the table. “Mr. and Mrs. Cavanaugh, investment consultants.”
Rebel arches a brow. “You made us married?”
“People talk less to couples. Especially the pretty kind.”
Divine snorts. “Try not to kill each other before the hors d’oeuvres.”
“Or rip each other’s clothes off in public.” French jokes.
A few hours later, Rebel finds me in the guest room Allura gave me. It’s the same one I stayed in on the night I met Rebel.
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, suit jacket open, gun laid out beside my tie. The weight of Bones’ voice still lingers in the room. She doesn’t knock. Just steps in, barefoot, the hem of her gown trailing like smoke.
“You clean up well,” she says softly.
“You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I am.” Her lips twitch. “You almost look like a man who sleeps.”
“Only in nightmares.” For a moment, we just stand there in the quiet. Not touching, not speaking, both pretending this is normal.
Then she reaches for my hand, guiding it to her waist. “If we’re going to be fake married, we might as well sell it.”
