Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“Dean and BRAVO will be chewing on this from the outside,” he says. “We hit it from here. If we can isolate where ALFA07 connects to local operations, we might find a real-world handle. Name. Front company. Something.”
“So we’re basically reverse-stalking our stalker,” I say.
“Pretty much.”
I grin. “Romantic.”
He gives me a look.
We work.
Hours blur.
I love this part—the puzzle, the flow. The way our brains click together. I’ll spot a pattern, and he’ll already be halfway to validating it. He’ll mutter something about a subnet, and I’ll be rewiring how to visualize it before he finishes.
We fall into little pockets of banter that keep the air from getting too heavy.
At one point, I flick a grape at his forehead because he’s being too grim about a dead-end log file. It bounces off his temple and lands in his lap.
He looks down at it. Then at me.
“Really?” he says.
“Consider it vitamin C.”
He picks up the grape, rolls it between his fingers, then eats it without breaking eye contact.
Unnecessarily hot.
“I hate you,” I mutter.
“No, you don’t,” he says.
He’s not wrong.
Sometime in the afternoon, my back starts to protest the wooden chair. I stretch, arms over my head, spine cracking.
Knight notices.
Of course he does.
“You need a break,” he says. “Stand up.”
I make a face. “I’m fine.”
“Lark.”
I sigh theatrically and push back from the table, standing. “Okay, Dad.”
He stands too. He’s been more restless than usual—tapping fingers, glancing at the window, scanning corners that never change.
I know that look.
“The data will still be here in twenty minutes,” I say. “What’s up?”
He hesitates.
Then, “Last night made it very clear you’re not going to stay in the metaphorical car ever again.”
“That’s correct.”
“So if they find us,” he continues, “we can’t rely on you just hiding behind me. You need better physical skills.”
I arch a brow. “You’re going to teach me how to fight?”
“Yes.”
I bite back a grin. “This should be good.”
“I’m serious, Lark.”
“So am I. Do your worst.”
We move the chairs aside, clearing a slightly-less-tiny patch of floor in front of the couch. The cabin isn’t big, but there’s enough room that we won’t immediately kill each other on furniture.
Knight motions me to the center of the space.
“Rule one,” he says. “If someone gets close enough to put hands on you, you don’t freeze. You don’t flail. You do something specific. You commit.”
I nod. “Commit to violence. Got it.”
He steps closer. “I’m going to grab your wrist. I want you to try to pull away.”
He takes my right wrist in his hand, not digging in, just firm enough that it feels real.
“Go,” he says.
I yank back.
He doesn’t move an inch.
“You see the problem,” he says calmly.
“I see your ego,” I counter.
“This is what I mean. People are stronger. Bigger. They grab you, you don’t just yank in the direction they’re already anchoring. You go where they don’t expect.”
He loosens his grip slightly. “Again.”
Instead of just pulling, I step toward him, rotating my arm in a tight circle, my hand cutting toward his thumb. I drop my weight as I move, pivoting my hips.
His fingers slip off like butter.
He stares down at his now-empty hand.
Then at me.
“…you knew how to do that,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I told you I wasn’t just making up the Krav Maga thing. I’ve been taking classes for years.”
He squints.
I grin. “You thought I was lying to impress you?”
“I thought you took, like, a seminar at a self-defense night and spent the rest of the time eating free pizza.”
I gasp. “How dare you. It was free wings, actually. And I’ve been training twice a week since then.”
He runs a hand over his jaw. “Show me.”
I step back, plant my feet.
“Okay,” I say. “Grab me from behind.”
His eyebrows climb. “Excuse me?”
“Relax, prude. This is literally in the textbook. Someone grabs you from behind, you can’t see, your options change. So do it.”
He mutters something under his breath but moves behind me. His arms loop around my torso, pinning my arms just above the elbows, not crushing tight, just enough that I feel the restriction.
“Okay?” he asks quietly near my ear.
Too near.
My heartbeat stutters.
Focus, Lark.
“Okay,” I manage. “Common reaction is to panic. Try to pry their arms off. But if they’re stronger—which they usually are—that’s a losing game. So instead…”
I slam my heel down onto his instep.
He grunts, loosening a fraction of his hold.
At the same time, I throw my head back, connecting with his chest—would be nose if he were closer—and drop my weight, twisting my hips, cutting my arms down and out.
His hold breaks.
I spin, using his momentary off-balance state to step into his space, bring my hand up in a mock palm strike that stops a millimeter from his throat.
“If this was real,” I say, breathing a little faster, “I’d aim for soft spots. Throat, eyes, groin. Then run like hell.”
He opens his mouth.