The big black truck moved smoothly through the quiet, wet streets of the city. In the back seat, Beatrice lay curled up under Alexander’s heavy jacket. The fear and tiredness had finally caught up to her, and she was fast asleep, her breathing slow and soft.
In the front seat, the only sound was the steady click-clack of the windshield wipers pushing away the heavy rain.
Clara looked out the window. The bright neon lights of the city blurred together in the wet glass. Her hands were still cold, and her chest felt tight. Her mind was still spinning from the red numbers on the bomb, the sound of the gun, and the terrifying feeling of almost losing everything.
Suddenly, the truck slowed down.
Alexander turned the wheel and pulled the vehicle into a dark, quiet alleyway under a bridge. He
