Chapter 9 SHADOWS IN IZVORU

The compound was a fortress in the Romanian woods-stark walls, cold steel gates, emptiness that dripped like venom.

Catalina moved under dusk, wearing a dark paramedic uniform patched with fake insignia. She approached the perimeter disguised as part of a containment unit sweep. This was Bright Light, a real CIA black site known in rare declassified accounts to have been located in Bucharest-a place prisoners were moved to by private aircraft and rail, only a handful of US officials aware of the site's exact coordinates.

It was an unacknowledged prison, a whispered rumor until leaked cables placed it beneath Romanian vaults and steel cameras; she'd studied the details in intercepted logs Isa had pulled from encrypted forums.  She told herself she was ready. Prepared. The night before, Isa handed her a handwritten note:"Turn after the third fence, between lights three and four. The hole's weak. The bunker entrance is seven degrees clockwise from guard post C. You walk in slow. Upload your face code from me at the terminal. Be quick."But Catalina felt weak when she cracked the fence and felt the breeze of cold steel. The compound guard didn't greet her. He didn't stop her either-two minutes of nothing before he shouted. Flashing lights. Sirens. She froze behind a rusted steel shipping container, breath loud in her ears. Footsteps approached and retreated. Someone shouted in Romanian. She didn't understand. She raised her hands. Her stomach churned-faint tremors of adrenaline. After software crashes and frozen seconds, she realized one of Isa's single-use phones still worked, deep within the locker in her coat. She hit video. Walkie. Interrupt. They'd know she wasn't authorized. She heard then the first real hail: Open fire-and bullets ripped across the wall near her head. A bullet grazed her shoulder. Warm blood blossomed. Pain felt thick and final. She staggered backward. Scratched the concrete. A second shot cracked the lamp behind her. It collapsed. The darkness swallowed her. She didn't see him. She didn't feel him until a hand yanked her coat inside a narrow corridor. Her vision swarmed with angles and panic and an engine roar. Another bullet pattered against the wall inches from her head. A shadow of silk black coat unfurled above her. A body absorbed two more shots before dragging her forward. On the ground, for a moment, she slipped in and out. She saw his face-rain-dark hair, jet-black eyes-focused; an almost familiar body but dressed like a ghost, silent and perfect. She tried to say his name. Lucien. Her mouth only whispered leaks of broken words. She felt shrapnel slip past-it punched her rib. But he held her still as he loaded her into an armored Mercedes Ambulance. One photographer-or paramedic or merc-stayed behind. She heard him scream. And then the metal doors slammed into deafening silence. He put his mouth on her forehead and spoke low: Not yet. You're done. And somehow, he drove through the gates as if they'd never existed.

She woke up gasping. The smell of antiseptic and aviation film. Her shirt open at the collar, hair clinging damp to her neck. The leather seat folded behind her. She turned her head. White, cream, a private jet's interior. Lucien sat across, half turned, his hand closed over a medical kit. He leaned in, eyes wild in the cavernous quiet. "Catalina," he began, voice low, trembling. She blinked. "God, you scared me," he said, almost to himself. She placed a hand against her face. The crack where shrapnel had slashed. Blood felt warm. Sharp pain logged in her jaw. He rose then, as if detecting every breath she took. He walked to her side and the jets roared overhead. He looked younger than she'd ever seen him-running on rage and fear and no sleep. His voice was ragged, high with disbelief. "You almost died, Catalina, he said softly. "Our child almost lost you." She s*ck*d in air. "I didn't know," she said. Her own voice felt distant. Hollow. He laid a hand across her stomach. The airplane tilted. Turbulence. The world shook. He breathed. "If you were dead," he whispered into her hair, "the empire would-"
 He swallowed. His voice cracked.
 He leaned back and slammed his fist against the wall. "I don't know what I would've done," he admitted in a slump."If I lost you." His eyes glossed. He raised a hand and pressed it again to the window like he wanted out. "You think you were careful enough? You risked everything. Every person who died at Don Esteban's order. You took it into Europe. You didn't tell me. You risked our future." She reached for his sleeve. "How did you find me?" she asked, voice trembling. He squeezed her hand. "You never were gone," he said. That made her heart hit roof. "Oh," she said. He paused, then disclosed-"You were wearing the bracelet," he said. "The one I gave you when...when it felt like you might walk out of my life. I never meant to track everything, but I put a sensor inside. My gesture-what was meant to be a symbol-became a beacon. You blinked out of my world." His voice came back like broken glass. "I should've told you. Maybe I should've let you go." He closed his eyes. "But I couldn't. Voyagers don't abandon signals." The overhead lamp buzzed. Catalina looked again at her wrist-now a bloody bandage-where the tracker had been. Cold realization washed over her. She placed her own hand over the bracelet. "So, every time I walked away," she whispered. "You'd know." He nodded. "And you didn't come until I almost died." He kissed her hair. "I followed the beacon," he said softly. "And when you vanished, my empire trembled. I was terrified I'd find you-or just find your remains." He exhaled. "I became paranoid and brutal. I executed men who should've knocked, not died. But I didn't care who died. Not until you came back." She pressed her thumb onto the red rust of her wrist and felt tears burning her cheeks. He placed his hand gently on her cheek. "Shhh," he said. And for a moment, the whole world seemed tiny inside that bird-thick silence.

They flew through the night. He stayed beside her, watching her through the haze of sedation and adrenaline. When she slurred, he cradled her head. When she moaned, he murmured apologies as though they were prayers. Only once did she open her eyes fully and trace his tattoos-one scorpion nibbling across his forearm. He looked at her then, and she thought she saw regret. When she awoke next, the jet had landed. Sunlight slipped through shades. She felt dizzy, the room small. Her stomach rounded under the robe, bruised. Someone stood in the doorway-a nurse, white gloves, eyes too calm. Lucien leaned in from behind. She looked at him, searching. He placed a finger against her lips. "You're not supposed to speak yet," he said. "But you're safe." She closed her eyes.

The windows opened onto Cartagena-bright and beautiful and wrong. The city glistened. She sat up. Lucien stood beside her. She felt fragile, bruised, but strong. He handed her a cup of juice. Their fingers brushed. "I'm sorry," she whispered. He stared at her. She swallowed. "I didn't mean to vanish." She tilted her head. "I was trying to rescue my father." He stiffened. "You didn't say." She looked away. "I was halfway gone by the time I realized that I wasn't just fighting for revenge anymore. I was fighting for someone to come back to." He swallowed again. "You could have been killed," he said as she steadied the glass. Took a breath, he lay down beside her, under the sheets. She looked out the window at the bright city below. She leaned in, kissed the shell of his ear then whispered. "I almost died too."

Under the hum of Cartagena morning, she closed her eyes too.