Under the Shadows

Elyne's fingers tightened around the steering wheel as the static crackle of the police radio filled the confined space of the car. Her breath caught, her ears straining to catch every word, every shift in their plan.

"Unit 2, we're moving Amato to exit four. Repeat, exit four. Keep the route clear."

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Shit. She sat up straighter, her mind racing to adjust. This wasn't the plan. Exit four meant a longer route, more potential obstacles, more exposure. The risk just shot through the roof.

Without hesitation, she grabbed her phone from the passenger seat, her fingers flying over the screen. 4. Just a single digit. Mia would know what it meant. No time for anything else. The message sent, Elyne tossed the phone back onto the seat and turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, and she exhaled sharply, gripping the wheel as if it could anchor her in the chaos threatening to spiral out of control.

Her pulse thrummed in her ears, drowning out the distant roar of the protesting crowd down the street. She could feel it, the energy in the air thickening, pressing against her chest like a warning. Everything hinged on timing now—seconds, not minutes. She forced her foot onto the accelerator, weaving out of the parking lot and into the traffic-laden streets, the courthouse looming closer in her peripheral vision.

Focus, Elyne. Breathe. Stay sharp.

Her eyes flicked to the news feed still playing on her phone, the image of Dante being dragged through the courthouse halls, his jaw set, his expression unreadable. But she knew him. She knew the storm beneath that polished exterior, the fire barely contained behind those green eyes.

A first-class student, they called him. A model prisoner, dressed neatly in his burgundy sweater and crisp white shirt. Elyne could almost hear the guards commenting on how "cooperative" he was, how he made their jobs easy.

Yeah.

But, unfortunately for them, they didn't know about her.

Slamming the gearshift into drive, she pulled out of the lot with deliberate caution, forcing herself to stay within the speed limit. The last thing she needed was to draw attention now. As she approached the courthouse, the sheer chaos unfolding in front of her took her breath away.

The main exits were packed, the crowd surging like a living, breathing force of nature—signs waving, voices raised in a chorus of anger and demand. The Frenchman's handiwork, no doubt. He'd balked at first, feigning disinterest, but the second she'd mentioned the words strategic chaos, she had seen the unmistakable glint in his eyes. "Pour l'amour du bordel," he had murmured, and that was that.

Now his men were surely embedded within the crowd, subtly guiding the chaos like puppeteers pulling invisible strings. Elyne allowed herself a tight smile. Whatever works.

She scanned the scene, her sharp gaze landing on the massive transport van caught in the middle of the fray. Protesters clung to its sides, pounding on the metal, rocking it slightly with their sheer force. The police were struggling to contain the mob, their movements tense, the edges of their control beginning to fray. But Elyne wasn't fooled.

That's not him.

The real transport wouldn't take the obvious route. They'd want discretion, efficiency. She pressed her lips together, tuning into the police radio again. A crackle of static, then a voice:

"Unit Three, proceeding down Crescent Street, approaching Bellamy Avenue."

Shit. Crescent Street was on the other side of the courthouse, nowhere near where she had planned to intercept. If she floored it now, she'd blow her cover. But if she took her time, she might miss the only window they had.