They had three days.
Three days to disappear, rebuild, and come back stronger.
Orla stood by the window of the rundown safehouse, her eyes fixed on the treeline. Beyond it was everything she hated—Lazarus operatives still hunting them, the broken labs where children were twisted into weapons, and the name that still made her fists clench: Viktor Lazarus.
He had taken everything from her.
Her memory.
Her daughter.
And nearly, her soul.
But not anymore.
Behind her, Stanley zipped up the gear bag. “Food. Ammo. Phones. We’ve got enough to run.”
She didn’t turn around. “I’m done running.”
He paused.
“Then what do you want to do, Orla?”
“I want to make him bleed.”
She said it calmly. Too calmly.
Stanley stepped closer. “You mean war.”
“I mean justice. My way.”
A beat passed.
The
