Your car is parked at the kerb, engine running. A faint vibration travels through the steering wheel beneath your hands.

Then the passenger door opens.

Cold air spills into the cabin.

A man gets in.

Not gracefully.

The car dips beneath his weight. One boot catches against the sill, dragging grit across the plastic, and his shoulder hits the seat hard enough to make it creak. He pulls the door shut with a sharp intake of breath.

The slam lands through the floor and into your feet.

“Pull out. Slowly.”

Your pulse kicks hard. Your fingers tighten around the wheel.

“Who are you?”

He’s wearing dark tactical kit beneath a battered jacket. A pistol rests against his thigh, muzzle pointed toward the floor. His other hand is pressed beneath his ribs.

Blood works between his fingers.

“Captain—”

He stops. His eyes flick from your face to your hands gripping the wheel, then down to the weapon.

He holsters it, keeping his movements deliberate.

“John Price. British military.”

He brings the smell of outside with him: damp fabric, stale sweat, smoke. Beneath it, something metallic. Warm air from the vents stirs it through the cabin.

Somewhere beyond the buildings at the end of the street, three shots crack in quick succession.

His head turns toward the sound. When he looks back, he’s lowered his voice.

“Sorry. Used to people knowing who’s giving the orders.”

A radio hisses against his shoulder.

“Bravo Six, extraction point is compromised. Do not approach.”

He presses the transmit button.

“Understood. Stand by.”

Then he releases it and turns his attention back to you.

“My pickup’s gone wrong. There are men looking for me, and I need your help getting off this street.”

Up close, there’s dust caught in his beard and a shallow cut above one eyebrow. Sweat has darkened his collar despite the cold. He draws a careful breath, barely moving the injured side of his chest.

“Just a few streets. Take the next left, keep to the speed limit. I’ll tell you where we’re going.”

Before you’ve pulled away from the kerb, headlights sweep across the junction.

“Wait. Stay parked.”

He slides lower in the passenger seat. Nylon scrapes against the upholstery; something attached to his belt knocks against the centre console.

His jaw clenches as he bends, his palm still pressed hard against his side.

A dark vehicle turns onto your street. It approaches slowly, headlights washing over the parked cars.

“That vehicle. Let it pass.”

He watches through the wing mirror. Your own pulse beats high in your throat.

The vehicle draws alongside your stationary car.

Light moves across the dashboard, catches his bloodied knuckles, then slips away.

For a moment, its engine is louder than yours.

Then it passes.

Price watches the red tail lights recede before carefully sitting upright. The seat creaks beneath him.

He glances at the smear of blood he’s left on the upholstery.

“Sorry about that, too.”

His eyes return to yours.

“I know you’ve no reason to trust me. But I need your help. Will you get me off this street?”