Page 45 of Dozer

I hear footsteps behind us, coming up faster and closer than I like. I put myself at the rear on purpose, between Kenzi and whatever comes through that door next.

The first man clears it with his weapon already rising. I close the distance before he finishes raising it. There's nothing graceful about a fight. Anyone who says otherwise has never been in one that mattered. I catch his wrist, drive him into the wall, strip the weapon, and put him on the floor hard enough that the breath leaves him in one ugly sound. The entire thing takes a minute. Maybe less.

The second man doesn't follow through the door. He’s either smart or scared. Maybe he’s calling for backup. Regardless, I don't wait around to find out.

"Move." I order Kenzi again and again, she obeys without hesitation. We come out the far end of the corridor into a loading dock, cold air and diesel exhaust hitting us both at once. Hunter's contact has staged a car two blocks over for exactly this kind of contingency, and I spot it before we reach the street.

We run. Kenzi's hand catches mine again as we cross the last stretch. This time she does it. She doesn't even seem to realize it until we're at the car, her fingers laced through mine like her body made the decision before her mind caught up, the exact same as mine had, back in the station.

I unlock the doors. "Get in."

She does. I circle the hood, get behind the wheel, and pull away before the driver's door is fully shut.

We don't talk until we're three miles clear and merging onto a highway that puts distance between us and a train station. There will be a very confusing situation there to explain to actual federal agents once they get involved, and they will get involved. Hunter will brief our contacts at the FBI as soon as I get ahold of him.

I glance over. "You okay?"

"I'm okay." She's breathing hard but steady, hands not shaking this time. She's already filed away the last twenty minutes, which tells me something about how quickly she's adapting. She shouldn’t have to adapt to near death experiences, but there are a lot of things people shouldn’t have to adapt to. Her fingers are still curled around the laptop bag strap, knuckles pale, like she hasn't fully told her body the danger's passed.

"You?"

"Fine."

She looks at my hand on the steering wheel. Then at me. "That was fast."

"Had to be."

"No." She shakes her head. "I mean the whole thing. You grabbing my hand and cutting through the crowd. When you put your hand on my back, I didn't even think about it."

I keep my eyes on the road. "You trusted it."

"I trusted you."

Three words. They land harder than a bullet, to the chest but in a different way. They don’t feel destructive but lifesaving. I don't answer. I'm not sure I trust my own voice not to give away exactly how much weight those two words just put down in my chest.

She turns toward the window, then back to me. "I don't do that," she says. "Trust things without thinking first. I think first. I've always thought first."

"You didn't this time."

"No." A small, almost startled laugh escapes her. "I didn't. I didn’t have to."

Silence settles between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. Not anymore. I can still feel the shape of her hand in mine. I can still remember the brief pressure of her body beneath my palm, the catch in her breath, the half-second glance back like she missed my hand the instant it left her. And I don't like how easily my mind replays either one or maybe I do, and that's the actual problem.

"You know what the worst part is?" she asks.

"What?"

"I didn't even have time to make a sarcastic comment."

I glance over. She's smiling.

"You'll recover."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

I almost laugh. Instead, I shake my head and focus on the road. She turns back toward the window, but her hand settles on the center console between us. Not touching mine. Close enough that it could.

I don't move my hand toward hers. Not yet. Some things are better left to happen naturally. This between us will not be rushed just because the day nearly ended in a bullet. But I notice the space between our hands the same way I notice every exit in a room. It sits there, small and charged, the whole rest of the drive.