BULLETPROOF HEART

FIVE MINUTES

BULLETPROOF HEART - CHAPTER 18: FIVE MINUTES

Laurent checked her watch in the lobby, still holding Price's ankle gun in an evidence bag.

"Five minutes. Room 412. Then I need statements. Go."

They didn't take the main elevator. Belgian federal police were taking Price out the back, past the Christmas tree. They took the service elevator, the one that smelled like laundry soap.

412. Door closed. Locked. Chair under the handle — old Port Harcourt habit that never left.

One bed. Hotel Amigo. Brussels lights blinking outside, early Christmas market starting in the Grand Place.

Amara was still in the white bathrobe, hair still damp from the fake shower, feet bare and freezing from the marble lobby. Marcus had his shirt untucked, pistol now on the dresser, safety on. Six bullets still in it. Didn't need them.

For a long second, they just stood there, breathing hard. Not from running this time. From after.

"Dele didn't flip," Amara whispered.

"I know," Marcus said. "I bluffed. Price taught us that in 2021. Always lie if it buys you time."

"You used his rule against him."

"I learned how to end him."

She laughed, small and shaky, and wrapped the robe tighter.

"My foot is still cold," she said. "The one I put on yours."

Marcus went down on one knee — right there on the hotel carpet — and took her bare foot in both his hands. Big hands. Scarred. Warm from holding Price's wrist.

He rubbed it, slowly, warming it.

Amara looked down. This man had carried her out of Room 7, through the market, over a zinc roof, across a river. And now he was kneeling to warm her foot in Brussels.

"That's how my father proposed," she said softly. "My mother told me. After the 2012 flood. He warmed her feet."

Marcus looked up, still holding her foot.

"I'm not proposing," he said quickly. Too quickly.

"I know."

"I'm just... warming your foot."

"I know."

He stood. Hands settled on her waist over the soft robe. Foreheads touching.

Outside, sirens faded. Price was in a van. The drive was safe in The Hague. Dele was in custody. For the first time since she stole it in Port Harcourt, there was no one coming up the stairs.

"No one coming," Amara whispered.

"I checked," he whispered back.

"Good."

She reached up, fixed his collar again, like she had on the canal bridge in The Hague.

"So what do we do with five minutes when no one's hunting us?" she asked.

Marcus smiled — not soldier smile, not brave smile. Just his.

"We learn how to stay," he said.

And downstairs, Agent Laurent tapped her watch at exactly five minutes and one second, and smiled to herself when no one came down.

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*END OF CHAPTER 18*