Page 58 of Reckless: Corruption

The guards advance, weapons raised. I drop into fighting stance, preparing for a battle I can’t possibly win. But winning isn’t the point. Distraction is.

The first guard reaches me, and I strike with all the precision Mona mapped out with candy—that sweet spot under the jaw that temporarily disrupts neural signals. He drops like a stone. The second gets a knee to a precise point on his thigh, collapsing his leg from under him.

Behind me, I catch the distinctive sound of the Ducati’s engine roaring to life, followed by shouts of alarm as Jinx tears through the darkness, the bypass device flying in the opposite direction.

Alexander’s attention splits—just for a second, but enough. I use his moment of distraction to drive my fist into that perfect weak spot behind his left ear, the one Mona demonstrated with Skittles and clinical precision.

Forty-three seconds of disorientation. Just like she promised.

He staggers, equilibrium failing as his neural pathways temporarily scramble. It won’t last long—Sterling recovery rates are unfortunately impressive—but it doesn’t need to. Just long enough.

I spin toward the remaining guards, dropping another with a precise strike to the solar plexus. My body moves on muscle memory now, each blow targeted to points Mona mapped out during our strange sisterly bonding sessions.

Sterling fighting techniques—precision, calculation, exact application of force. I am my father’s daughter after all.

But not in the way he intended.

Alexander recovers faster than expected, his hand closing around my wrist with bruising force. “Enough games.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” I drive my knee up, finding that old injury Mona described—the one she gave him on marble stairs at eleven years old. The one that never quite healed right.

He howls as his knee buckles, grip loosening just enough for me to twist free. I sprint toward the forest line, every muscle screaming in protest as the virus rages hotter with exertion.

Bullets kick up dirt at my heels, but I don’t slow, don’t look back. Trust Jinx to complete the mission. Trust Mona’s calculations. Trust the pack to come for me if I can’t escape.

Trust. Such a simple word for such a complicated feeling.

The forest swallows me into darkness, branches whipping past as I push deeper into cover. My lungs burn, each breath a struggle against virus-weakened tissues. But I push on, driven by the need to put distance between myself and Sterling’s hunters.

“Position?” Mona’s voice in my ear startles me. I’d forgotten the comms in the chaos.

“Forest,” I gasp. “East of facility. Alexander?—”

“Is tracking standard pursuit patterns,” she completes. “Very predictable movement protocols. Much tactical inefficiency.”Her voice shifts, that clinical detachment giving way to something almost like concern. “Jinx’s signal detected returning to your coordinates. His diversion with the device was temporarily successful. Maintain evasive protocols for approximately three hundred meters.”

I push forward, each step requiring more effort than the last as the virus surges in response to stress and exertion. My vision blurs at the edges, the forest dissolving into smears of shadow and moonlight.

Behind me, I hear dogs—because of course Alexander would bring combat hounds to complete the Sterling hunting party aesthetic. Their baying carries through night air, primal and terrifying.

“They have dogs,” I inform Mona, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Expected.” She doesn’t sound concerned. “Counter-measures deployed. Very effective pheromone dispersal. Much canine confusion.”

Sure enough, the baying shifts, becoming disorganized and distant. Whatever Mona deployed, it’s working.

I spot a fallen tree ahead, and something in my virus-hazed brain clicks into place. Parkour instinct takes over—I visualize the move before executing it, just like Jinx taught me. Run up incline, twist, flip, land. Use the height advantage to spot pursuit. Simple.

Except my body isn’t operating at full capacity.

I make it up the incline and manage the twist, but my landing goes sideways. I crash hard, rolling awkwardly instead of the smooth dismount I’ve practiced a hundred times on the mansion’s roof. The impact drives what little air remains from my lungs, leaving me gasping on the forest floor. Every cell screams for rest, for surrender, for an end to this punishing flight.

“Get up,” I wheeze to myself. “Get the fuck up.”

My body refuses to comply, the virus finally exacting its toll for my recklessness. Black spots dance across my vision, consciousness fading at the edges.

“Cayenne?” Mona’s voice grows distant through the roaring in my ears. “Status update required. Cayenne?”

The darkness reaches for me with comforting arms, promising relief from pain, from fear, from the burning in my blood. It would be so easy to give in, to let go, to rest.

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