CHAPTER 2: Extraction
The museum corridor erupted into chaos.
Gunfire echoed from the gala hall—screams, shattering glass, the thunderous stampede of three hundred panicked guests. Della's instinct was to run toward the sounds, to find her father, but Hilton's grip on her hand was iron.
"This way." He pulled her in the opposite direction, toward the service stairs.
"My father—"
"Has a dozen Secret Service agents. You have me." Hilton moved with predatory grace, checking corners before advancing. "Your father's security detail was notified thirty seconds before I reached you. He's already in extraction protocol."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I'm the one who triggered it." He stopped at a junction, listening. His free hand rested inside his jacket, and Della realized with a cold shock that he was armed. "Three floors down, east exit. Stay behind me."
They descended the stairs in controlled rushes. Hilton moved like water—fluid, adaptable, impossibly quiet for someone his size. Della's heels clicked against concrete until he glanced back with a look that needed no words. She slipped them off, carrying them as they continued barefoot.
Two floors down, a door burst open above them. Voices shouted in a language Della didn't recognize. Boots hammered on stairs.
Hilton didn't hesitate. He swept her against the wall, his body shielding hers completely as the footsteps approached. His hand emerged from his jacket holding a matte black pistol that looked like it belonged in a military arsenal.
"Close your eyes," he whispered against her ear.
"What—"
"Close them. Trust me."
Della squeezed her eyes shut. The world became sound: breathing—his steady, hers ragged—the approaching boots, then—
Rapid gunfire. Three shots so close together they sounded like one. Brass casings clinked on concrete. A body hit the stairs above with a heavy thud, then tumbled down toward them.
"Don't look," Hilton said. "Keep moving."
But Della had already seen. Three men in black tactical gear, now motionless on the landing. Headshots. All three. Hilton had fired without looking, using only sound to aim.
What kind of bodyguard was he?
They reached the ground floor. Hilton paused at the exit door, touching his ear. Della noticed the nearly invisible earpiece for the first time.
"Copy. Route Charlie compromised. Switching to Delta." He turned to her. "Change of plans. We go through the sculpture garden."
"That's exposed. They'll see us."
"They already know where we are." His grey eyes held hers. "Question is whether they can catch us. Stay close."
The door opened onto the museum's sculpture garden, normally a serene space filled with modern art and manicured hedges. Tonight it was a battlefield. Security personnel exchanged fire with attackers dressed identically to the men in the stairwell. Marble statues exploded under stray bullets. A bronze installation toppled with a crash that rang out like a bell.
Hilton analyzed the chaos in seconds. "When I move, you move. Don't think, just run. Understand?"
Della nodded, her throat too tight for words.
"Now."
They burst from the doorway. Hilton's pistol barked twice—two attackers dropped. He grabbed a fallen tactical vest, throwing it around Della's shoulders as they ran. The vest was too large, smelled like cordite and sweat, but she understood immediately. Armor.
Bullets tore through the space they'd occupied heartbeats before. Hilton returned fire without breaking stride, his movements economical and precise. Every shot found its target. Every step positioned him between Della and the greatest threat.
They vaulted over a toppled sculpture—some postmodern thing worth more than Della's car—and ducked behind a stone fountain. Water sprayed from bullet holes, creating a surreal rain.
"Vehicle incoming," Hilton said into his comm. "Thirty seconds."
A black SUV crashed through the garden's iron gates, tires squealing. It fishtailed to a stop beside the fountain, passenger door flying open.
"In. Now."
Della dove into the vehicle, Hilton right behind her. The door hadn't closed before the driver floored the accelerator. They rocketed forward, weaving between sculptures and bodies.
The driver was a woman—late thirties, dark skin, eyes like chips of obsidian. She handled the SUV like it was an extension of her body, executing a handbrake turn that would make stunt drivers weep.
"Nice of you to join us, Wade," she said, her accent British and aristocratic. "Though you're behind schedule."
"Had complications." Hilton finally released Della's hand, checking the pistol's magazine. "Della Steel, this is Captain Sienna Cross. She's with The Veil."
"The what?" Della pressed herself against the seat as Sienna took a corner at seventy miles per hour.
"Explanations later," Sienna said. "We've got company."
Della twisted to look through the rear window. Three black vans pursued them, weaving through traffic with reckless precision. The lead van's side door slid open. A man leaned out holding something that definitely wasn't a standard firearm.
"RPG!" Hilton shouted.
Sienna swerved hard right, down an alley barely wide enough for the SUV. The rocket-propelled grenade struck a delivery truck behind them, the explosion lighting up the night in orange and red.
"They're not trying to capture you," Hilton said to Della, his tone matter-of-fact. "They're trying to eliminate you."
"Why? I don't know anything!"
"You touched the artifact. That makes you a variable. Some factions eliminate variables." He rolled down his window, leaning out with his pistol. "Sienna, give me stable."
"Stable in this alley? You're joking."
"Just drive straight for three seconds."
Sienna complied. Three seconds of straight driving at sixty miles per hour. Hilton fired four times. Behind them, the lead van's windshield spiderwebbed. The vehicle swerved, clipping a dumpster and rolling sideways in a shower of sparks.
"Two remaining," Sienna reported. "Wade, I'm taking the expressway. You'll have thirty seconds of open road."
"Good enough."
The SUV exploded from the alley onto the elevated expressway. Sienna weaved through sparse late-night traffic while the two remaining vans closed the distance. Della watched in horrified fascination as Hilton reloaded with practiced efficiency.
"You've done this before," she said.
"More than I'd like." He met her eyes briefly. "You holding up?"
"I don't know. Ask me when I stop shaking."
Something flickered in his expression—concern? Respect? Then the professional mask returned. "You're tougher than you think."
The vans pulled alongside, one on each side. Windows rolled down. Automatic weapons appeared.
"Sienna—"
"I see them. Hold tight."
The world tilted. Sienna hit the brakes while yanking the wheel hard left. The SUV spun one-eighty, now facing backward while still traveling forward. Hilton leaned out both windows simultaneously, firing in perfect rhythm. Both vans' drivers slumped. The vehicles careened into the guardrails in twin explosions of metal and glass.
Sienna completed the spin, straightening out as if they'd simply changed lanes. "That's the last of immediate pursuit. The Covenant won't risk more exposure tonight."
"The Covenant?" Della felt like she'd fallen into an action movie. "Who are these people?"
"Ancient, powerful, and very interested in that artifact you touched." Hilton holstered his weapon, finally looking at her fully. In the dashboard lights, his grey eyes held shadows Della couldn't read. "How much did you see when you touched it?"
The visions rushed back. Ancient cities. Impossible weapons. That voice echoing through millennia.
"Everything," Della whispered. "I saw everything."
Hilton and Sienna exchanged a look that spoke volumes.
"That's... problematic," Sienna said carefully.
"Why?" Della demanded. "What did I touch? What the hell is going on?"
"You touched something that predates human civilization," Hilton said. "Something that multiple organizations have killed for centuries to keep hidden. And now the knowledge of its existence is locked in your brain."
"So unlock it! I don't want this!"
"Doesn't work that way." His voice was gentle but firm. "The artifact bonds with certain individuals. You can't unknow what it showed you. You can't give it back."
Della's hands trembled. She clasped them together, refusing to show weakness. "My father—"
"Can't help you. This is beyond his clearance level. Beyond most government clearances." Hilton leaned forward. "Della, as of tonight, you have three choices. One: go into protective custody with The Veil until we neutralize the threats. Two: disappear completely, new identity, new life. Three: try to return to normal and be dead within forty-eight hours."
The casual way he said it made it worse. This was real. Men with military-grade weapons had just tried to kill her. Her entire life had shattered in the space of an hour.
"What's The Veil?" she asked.
"An organization that protects humanity from threats they don't know exist," Sienna said. "We operate outside official channels because official channels are compromised."
"So you're vigilantes."
"We're necessary." Hilton's tone brooked no argument. "And right now, we're all that stands between you and a dozen groups who want you dead."
Della's mind raced. Her father's campaign. Her career. Her life. Everything she'd worked for, gone because she'd been curious about an artifact.
"Option one," she said finally. "Protective custody. But I want answers. All of them."
Hilton's expression was unreadable. "Some answers are more dangerous than the questions."
"I don't care. If I'm risking my life, I deserve to know why."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Fair enough. But Della? Once you know, there's no going back. The truth changes people."
"I'm already changed," she said, thinking of the visions still burning in her mind. "So tell me. What is the artifact? What does it do?"
Hilton was quiet for a long moment. Then: "It's a key. To something called The Origin Point. A place where reality itself can be rewritten. Where past, present, and future converge. Where someone with the knowledge you now possess could reshape the world."
The SUV merged onto a highway, heading out of the city. Behind them, sirens wailed and smoke rose from the museum district.
"And everyone wants it," Della said softly.
"Everyone," Hilton confirmed. "Welcome to the war that's been fought in shadows for three thousand years. You're now a soldier whether you want to be or not."
Della looked out the window at the receding city lights. Somewhere back there, her father was probably losing his mind. Richard was spinning the attack as domestic terrorism. The press would have a field day.
And she was driving into the unknown with a man who killed with surgical precision and spoke of ancient conspiracies like discussing the weather.
"Hilton?"
"Yes?"
"When you said you'd protect me... did you mean it?"
His grey eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. "With my life if necessary."
The certainty in his voice should have been comforting. Instead, it terrified her. Because men like Hilton Wade didn't make promises lightly.
And Della suspected she'd need every ounce of that protection before this was over.