Claire moved before the echo died. Her gun was in her hand in an instant, a sleek black pistol that gleamed dully in the dim light. She didn’t aim—she knew. Her arm was steady, her finger squeezing the trigger in rapid, controlled bursts. Pop-pop-pop! The muzzle flash lit up her face in stark relief, her jaw set, her eyes cold and focused. She wasn’t shooting to kill—yet. She was buying time.
"Stay down!" she barked, her voice cutting through the chaos. A bullet whizzed past my ear, embedding itself in the wood behind me. Splinters rained down like deadly confetti.
I ducked lower, my heart hammering against my ribs. Claire’s eyes flicked to me, assessing. "You hit?"
I shook my head, my voice barely more than a breath. "No. But who the hell are these guys? Who are you?"
She fired another round, the gun bucking in her grip. "FBI!" she snapped. "That’s all you need to know!"
A shadow moved to my left. The bartender—his face twisted in betrayal—had a shotgun in his hands, the barrel swinging toward Claire. There was no time to think. I lunged, snatching a half-empty vodka bottle from the floor and hurling it with all my strength.
It smashed against his shoulder, throwing off his aim. Claire didn’t hesitate. Her shot was clean, precise. The bartender’s head snapped back, his body crumpling to the floor with a sickening thud.
Claire grabbed my arm again, her fingers digging in. "We move! Now!"
She kept me in front of her, her body shielding mine as she fired behind us, the gunshots a relentless staccato. The air was thick with the acrid bite of gunpowder, the taste of it metallic on my tongue.
We crouched low, weaving through the chaos, our breaths ragged. A bullet ricocheted off the bar, sending a spray of wood chips into the air. Claire’s arm was a band of iron around my waist, pulling me forward.
"We’re not making it out if we stay here!" she shouted over the gunfire. She pressed a set of keys into my hand. "You know how to drive, right?"
I nodded, my voice shaking. "Y-yeah."
"Good." Her eyes locked onto mine, fierce and unyielding. "Black SUV outside. Go. I’ll hold them off. They won’t follow you."
I heard the whisper of her thoughts, sharp and clear: [I can’t let him die because of me. Not another one.]
She kept firing, her movements a blur as she ejected a spent magazine and slammed a fresh one home. "Back door!" she yelled, nodding toward it. "Just go! Don’t look back!"
I hesitated. "What about you? You’re coming with me!"
Claire’s gaze was steel. "No time! Go!"
I turned, my hand on the door handle—as I pretended to be a coward. Then, I spun back, grabbing a nearby shelf and yanking it down with a roar. Bottles exploded against the floor, the sound a symphony of destruction. Claire’s eyes widened in shock as I dragged her toward the exit, her gun still barking death behind us.
"I’m not leaving you!" I shouted over the chaos.
We burst through the door, the cold night air hitting us like a slap. Claire didn’t argue. She grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the SUV.
The SUV’s tires screeched as we tore away from the pub, the adrenaline still burning through my veins like wildfire. The silence in the car was thick, suffocating, broken only by the ragged rhythm of our breathing. Claire’s hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles had turned white, her jaw clenched as if she were holding back a storm.
Claire’s head snapped toward me, her eyes blazing with a mix of fury and something else—something raw and unguarded. "You idiot!" she exploded, her voice a whip-crack in the confined space. "Do you have any idea what just happened back there? Those men were—they don’t play games! You could’ve been killed!"
I met her gaze, unflinching. "But I wasn’t. Because of you."
"That’s not the point!" she snapped, slamming her palm against the steering wheel. The car swerved slightly before she corrected it, her voice rising. "You ran back for me! You threw a shelf at them like some kind of—of action hero! Do you have a death wish? Or are you just stupid?"
I exhaled sharply, my own frustration bubbling up. "I wasn’t going to leave you to die. What kind of person do you think I am?"
"A dead one if you keep pulling stunts like that!" she shot back, her voice trembling with barely contained rage. "You don’t understand what you’re dealing with! These people—they don’t care who gets caught in the crossfire! You could’ve been another body on the floor, another statistic in this damn war!"
I clenched my fists, my voice rising to match hers. "And what if you had been the one left behind? Would you have just walked away?"
Claire’s breath hitched, her eyes flickering with something—guilt, maybe, or the ghost of memories she didn’t want to face. For a second, the fire in her seemed to falter. But then it roared back, fiercer than before. "That’s different! I’m trained for this! I know what I’m doing! You? You’re just some—some civilian who got dragged into my mess!"
I leaned forward, my voice low and intense. "I’m not just anything. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to let you face that alone."
She glared at me, her chest heaving with each breath. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the distant wail of sirens—someone must’ve called the cops after the gunfire.
Finally, Claire’s shoulders sagged slightly, some of the fight draining out of her. "You’re impossible," she muttered, more to herself than to me.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, as if trying to regain control. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. Those men—they were after me. You never should’ve gotten involved."
I shook my head. "It’s fine. We’re both safe. That’s all that matters now."
She shot me another look, her eyes still burning with leftover anger. "Aren’t you angry?"
I let out a short, humorless laugh. "At you? The person who just saved my life? Should I yell at you for that?"
Claire’s expression softened slightly, something almost like bewilderment flickering across her face. "You’re... not like others."
I raised an eyebrow. "What others?"
She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the road ahead. "Doesn’t matter." She shook her head, as if physically dismissing the thought. "Right now, we just need to hide. I need to contact my people."
I nodded, watching as she pulled into the parking lot of a run-down motel. The place was the definition of forgotten—peeling paint, a flickering "No Vacancy" sign that clearly lied, and an overall air of decay. No cameras, no prying eyes. Just the kind of place you’d go if you didn’t want to be found.