Chapter Four — The Safehouse
1052 Words
The tram spat them out into the wet night at Alexanderplatz. Darcy didn’t stop moving. The rain had eased to a cold mist, blurring the neon glare into smeared halos. Quinn and Michael kept pace without speaking, their footsteps falling in sync with hers.
They cut through a warren of side streets until Darcy found what she was looking for: a narrow, crumbling building wedged between two modern apartment blocks. The faded sign above the door read Schmidt’s Textiles, but the shop had been closed for years.
Darcy knocked twice, paused, then three times. The door opened an inch, a chain still in place. A pale eye peered out.
“It’s me,” Darcy said.
The chain rattled free. They slipped inside.
The shop was dusty and dim, bolts of fabric stacked like forgotten towers. Darcy led them past a counter to a hidden door in the back, pushing it open to reveal a steep staircase.
The safehouse was nothing more than a single cramped room above the shop, but it had four walls, a lock, and a reinforced window. That was enough.
Quinn set his coat on the back of a chair. Michael moved to the window, scanning the street below. Darcy locked the door and leaned against it, her fingers drumming against the wood.
“Alright,” she said. “We talk now.”
Michael turned from the window. “You first. How did Quinn get to you?”
“He didn’t ‘get to me,’” Darcy said.“We were supposed to meet for an intel handoff. Then he showed up early spoke my alias like he owned it and handed me the envelope with my name.”
Michael’s jaw tightened. “That means he already knew the coordinates.”
Quinn leaned back against the table, crossing his arms. “You think I planted them? Cute. But if I wanted you dead, Darling, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.
He smirked, but didn’t apologize.
Michael took a slow step toward Quinn. “If you didn’t plant them, then who did?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Quinn’s tone was infuriatingly calm. “Who has access to operational aliases, kill coordinates, and enough control to make us dance through half the city?”
Darcy’s eyes flicked between them. “Whoever it is, they’ve been one step ahead since the café.”
Michael’s voice dropped. “Then we stop playing catch-up. We hit back.”
Quinn straightened. “We can’t hit a ghost. We need a name first.”
“And you have one?” Michael asked.
Quinn’s silence was answer enough.
Darcy stepped in. “Both of you need to get over whatever history you have and focus. We have less than twenty-four hours. That’s not long enough for ego.”
Quinn’s gaze held hers a moment longer than necessary. “I’m not the one who dragged a corpse into this operation.”
Michael’s fists curled at his sides, but he didn’t rise to it. Instead, he turned back to the window. “You trust him?” he asked over his shoulder.
Darcy didn’t answer. She didn’t trust either of them.
The silence in the room thickened. Outside, the streetlight flickered, shadows pulsing across the walls.
Quinn broke the quiet. “There’s a contact of mine who goes by Lark. She moves data for the highest bidder, no questions asked. If anyone can trace who pulled the coordinates, it’s her.”
“Where?” Darcy asked.
“Prenzlauer Berg. But she won’t deal with strangers. I’ll have to go alone.”
“That’s not happening,” Darcy said. “If this is a trap, I’m not letting you walk into it and disappear.”
His mouth quirked. “Concerned?”
“Suspicious,” she shot back.
Michael moved away from the window. “We all go. If it’s a trap, we spring it on them.”
Quinn sighed, like he’d expected the pushback. “Fine. But you follow my lead with Lark. She spooks easily.”
Darcy checked her watch. Midnight. “We rest here for two hours, then move.”
Quinn claimed the small sofa. Michael settled against the wall by the door, still watchful. Darcy took the armchair in the corner, her pistol resting on her thigh.
For a while, the only sound was the distant hum of the city.
“You’ve changed,” Michael said quietly.
Darcy looked up. “Two years does that.”
His gaze softened. “I didn’t want you to see me tonight. Not like this. But if I’d stayed in the dark, they’d have closed the trap without you even knowing it was there.”
Her chest tightened, but she kept her voice cool. “You could’ve told me you were alive.”
“And put a target on your back sooner? No.”
Quinn’s voice cut in from the sofa, sharp as glass. “Sweet reunion. Touching. But if we’re going to survive tomorrow, maybe save the nostalgia for when we’re not on the menu.”
Darcy stood abruptly. “I’m getting some air.”
Neither man tried to stop her.
She slipped out onto the narrow balcony. The mist clung to her skin, carrying the faint tang of ozone. The street below was quiet, too quiet.
A flicker of movement caught her eye. Across the street, on a rooftop, a figure stood silhouetted against the haze. Watching.
Darcy’s pulse kicked. She turned toward the door. “Michael”
The c***k of a suppressed rifle split the night. The balcony railing beside her exploded in a spray of splinters.
She dove back inside as Michael lunged to slam the window shutters.
“Sniper,” she gasped.
Quinn was already on his feet, pulling his coat on. “They’ve found us.”
Michael checked his weapon. “How?”
Quinn’s eyes met Darcy’s. “Because someone in this room led them here.”
The accusation hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.
Darcy tightened her grip on her pistol. “Then the question wasn’t who. It’s why they’re keeping me alive long enough to get to those coordinates.”
No one answered.
Outside, the streetlights flickered again.
Somewhere in the dark, the sniper waited for their next move.
- Writer
