A bumpy ride back home

Helena had just snapped the last elastic into Meredith’s dark-blonde braid when the eight-year-old spun on the vanity stool, eyes shining like wet pebbles.

“Mom says Tessa invited me to a play-date at the park!”

The words hit Helena like a second cup of coffee she hadn’t asked for. Inside her head an invisible abacus flicked: grocery run, farmers’ market, dry-cleaning, pharmacy, and now—swing sets and germs. Saturday was metastasizing.

She crouched, leveling her gray eyes with Meredith’s hazel ones. “Did Mrs. Langford set a time?”

Meredith’s forehead folded; curls bobbed in apology. “I forgot! Sorry, Fran!”

The nickname was a leftover baby lisp Helena had stopped correcting months ago. She exhaled through her nose, already drafting the obligatory text to her employer.

“Bath first, miss. Then farmers’ market, then the park. Chop-chop.”

Helena straightened, catching her reflection in the cheval mirror: black uniform dress, white apron starched stiff enough to cut, discreet Velcro strips hidden under the ruffle. The Langford dynasty paid her to look like a storybook au pair; the dynasty’s security division paid her to be something else entirely. Rule number one, stamped in invisible ink on every paycheck: keeping Meredith alive and unharmed, no matter how bright the day or ordinary the sidewalk.

She gently opened the window a little. January air is —sharp, maritime—slipped inside, carrying the distant clang of the Kingsport trolley and the smell of incoming rain. Good. Rain kept crowds thin.

Meredith thundered down the hall toward the bathroom. Helena followed, scooping a stray sock off the Persian runner, listening for the splash that would tell her the child was actually in the tub and not staging an escape via laundry sink.

Twenty minutes later they emerged: Meredith in neon-orange puffer, Helena in a charcoal wool coat that looked off-the-rack but carried Kevlar quilting. She zipped her own phone, wallet, and a palm-sized panic button into the Tote-Apron’s false bottom, then clipped Meredith’s reflective whistle to the zipper of the tiny coat.

“Farmer Ted first,” Helena announced, “then Tessa. Shoes.”

Meredith put on a pair of rain boots with polka-dot patterns. These boots might remain intact even if the Redbank River were to flood. Helena slid into matte-black ankle boots with Vibram sole quiet as guilt.

They left Cedar Heights townhouse at 09:17. The hill-like complex of buildings made of red bricks stretched out around them, with vines swaying in the wind, as if a group of tense spectators were swaying with the breeze. Helena’s every step was a calculation: distance to curb, width of gutter, line of sight to the corner deli’s convex mirror. She cataloged every parked sedan, every bundled jogger, every nanny pushing a stroller with the practiced boredom of a bodyguard who had once dodged bullets on a rooftop in Istria and now counted raisins in trail-mix like they were ammunition.

Meredith skipped three paces ahead, humming the theme to *SkyStrider Rangers*. Her backpack—shaped like a ladybug—bounced. Helena kept the pace relaxed, shoulders loose, expression pleasant. Invisible was safest.

They crossed Alder Street. A delivery van idled, tailpipe coughing white. Helena’s eyes flicked to the driver: beanie, earbuds, scrolling phone. Threat level: winter morning. She moved on.

Liberty Gardens unfurled ahead, leafless maples knitting gray sky into crochet. The farmers’ market occupied the eastern promenade, white canopies snapping like schooner sails. Helena bought apples the color of merlot, a jar of honey that weighed as much as a grenade, and a bouquet of eucalyptus because Meredith liked the mint-camphor smell. Stall owners greeted her by the false name on her forged reference letter—*Helena Frye, nice to see you again*—and she smiled back, cataloging exits.

While the grocer wrapped cheese, Meredith tugged her sleeve. “Can we feed the ducks?”

“After Tessa,” Helena bargained. “Ducks don’t keep play-dates.”

They left the market at 10:02. The path to the children’s playground curved downhill, flanked by iron benches and bronze statues of forgotten mayors. Meredith hop-scotched cracks. Helena scanned.

Halfway down, three figures lounged under the bare elm nearest the public restrooms: matching gray hoodies, draw strings cinched to portholes. One perched on a rental bike, kicking the ground with his heel at will. Another held their mobile phones tilted slightly towards the flight path to capture the pigeons. The third leaned against the trunk, hands buried.

Helena’s stomach tightened. She’d seen this choreography before: spot, isolate, intercept. She shifted left, putting herself between the group and Meredith. Casual. Smooth.

The one with the phone called out, voice muffled by fabric. “Hey, princess, nice boots.”

Meredith slowed, unsure whether royalty had been discovered. Helena touched her shoulder, guiding her forward. “Eyes ahead, miss.”

Boots crunched gravel behind them. Rental bike. No bell. Helena's pulse quickened. She palmed the panic button through the apron but didn’t press—yet.

“Yo, nanny!” The voice closer now, amused. “We’re talking to you.”

Helena stopped, turned. She let her coat fall open just enough to reveal the badge-shaped brooch that doubled as a body-cam. “Morning, gentlemen. Lovely day.”

Gray Hoodie One—phone guy—tilted his head. “That your kid?”

“Charge,” Helena corrected, voice light. “And we’re late for a play-date.”

Gray Hoodie Two—bike—grinned. “We got a message for the Langfords. Figured we’d deliver.”

Helena’s spine iced. They knew the name. They’d followed. This wasn’t random.

Meredith pressed to Helena’s side, small hand finding the folds of the apron. “Fran?”

Helena squeezed once: "I've got you." Aloud she said, “I’m afraid I don’t take unsolicited mail.”

Gray Hoodie Three—elms—stepped forward. His right hand emerged from the kangaroo-skin pocket, with the knuckles encased in carbon fiber material. Not quite brass knuckles, but close enough to bruise. “Won’t take long.”

Helena estimated distances: eight yards to the restroom block, twelve to the fountain, twenty to the nearest jogger. No uniforms in sight. She inhaled, tasting winter and eucalyptus.

“Tell you what,” she said, slipping the grocery bag into Meredith’s arms, “hold these for me three seconds.”

Meredith obeyed, arms circling apples. Helena’s hands were free now. She flexed fingers inside fleece-lined gloves.

Gray Hoodie One raised the phone higher, recording. “Just want a word, kid stays, you walk ten feet, we talk, everybody wins.”

Helena smiled, the expression brittle. “Protocol violation.”

She moved. One stride—apron flaring—she whipped the rolled-up Tote-Apron from her waist. The weighted hem snapped open like a magician’s scarf, concealing her left hand as it yanked the panic button. A silent pulse transmitted to Kingsport Security, GPS tagging the gardens.

Gray Hoodie Two swung the bike, trying to box her in. Helena pivoted, heel hooking the front tire. Carbon spokes squealed; the bike skidded, rider stumbling. She used the momentum, shoulder-checking Hoodie One. Phone flew, skittering across frost-rimed gravel.

Hoodie Three lunged. Helena dropped her weight, forearm catching the extended wrist. Carbon fiber scraped Kevlar with a dentist-drill screech. She rotated, leveraging elbow against joint, and drove his kneecap with the inside of her boot. He folded with a grunt.

Meredith stood motionless, holding an apple tightly in her hand. Her eyes were wide open but there were no tears in them. Training held.

Helena straightened, breath frosting. “Next?”

Hoodie One scrambled for the phone. Helena stomped the device; polycarbonate cracked like thin ice. She ground heel, fragments spraying.

“Message delivered,” she said quietly. “Now retreat.”

Sirens dopplered faint—still blocks away but approaching. Hoodie Two hesitated, measuring her stance, then grabbed his limping partner. They backed, hoods swiveling for witnesses. Joggers had paused; a dog walker lifted her own phone, either filming or calling 911.

Helena stepped between the retreating thugs and Meredith, arms loose, ready for round two. None came. The trio melted into the Wildwood Maze, bikes clacking.

She exhaled, pulse thrumming in her ears like distant drums. Meredith’s whistle dangled untouched; the child had remembered rule two: *no screaming unless touched.*

Helena knelt, steadying the tremor in her thighs. “You okay?”

Meredith nodded, lip caught between teeth. “Are we still going to the park?”

A laugh—half-sob, half-relief—bubbled out of Helena. She tucked a flyaway curl behind the girl’s ear. “Yes. But we’re taking the long way.”

She retrieved the broken phone, dropping it into a produce bag. Evidence. Then she texted Mrs. Langford a single line: *Minor incident. SP activated. Meredith safe. Will update.*

They resumed walking, route altered, Helena’s gaze now sweeping rooftops as well as paths. Meredith’s hand found hers, glove to glove.

“Fran?”

“Mm?”

“I forgot to say thank you for the apples.”

Helena squeezed gently. “You’re welcome, miss.”

Behind them, sirens converged on the elm. Ahead, the playground swings waited, empty chains creaking like warning bells. Helena inhaled, tasted copper and eucalyptus, and stepped into the cold sunlight, already calculating how many more Saturdays the city would try to collect its unnamed debt.

Across the Redbank River, the skyscrapers of downtown Kingsport stood like polished glass chess pieces, their mirrored sides catching the last of the winter sun. Helena Langford paused on the riverwalk, one gloved hand tightening on the silver clasp of her handbag, the other resting lightly on Meredith’s shoulder. The wind off the water tasted of copper and snow.

“Hel-Hel, look!” Meredith skidded forward, boots squeaking on the frost-slick brick, and stopped in front of a candy-apple cart painted the violent red of circus tents. A single bulb swung from the awning, glazing every apple to a jewel-bright shine. Steam rose from the copper kettle in sugary ghosts.

Helena’s gaze flicked over the crowd first—tourists with cameras, a pair of skateboarders, a nanny pushing a double stroller—then she tugged a dollar from her coat pocket. “One caramel apple,” she told the vendor, “eaten before it drips on your coat.”

Meredith tilted her head, dark curls bouncing. “Two, please, one for Tessa.”

Helena exhaled through her nose, watched her breath bloom and vanish. She flicked another coin onto the scarred wooden counter. “Fine. Share.”

While the vendor twisted the sticks in, the caramel stretched like taffy, two guys in Patriots hoodies detached themselves from the railing. Early twenties, close-cropped beards, the kind of lazy muscle built on weekend beer leagues. One wore mirrored sunglasses even though the sun had already slipped behind the Kensington City skyline; the other kept his hands buried in a camo muffler.

“Check the mini-CEO in the Moncler,” Sunglasses muttered, loud enough for Helena to catch.

Muffler snorted. “Rich kids don’t walk here alone, bet the nanny’s just eye-candy.”

Helena’s spine straightened a fraction. She accepted the apples, passed one to Meredith, then stepped sideways so her body blocked the path between the men and her little sister. The caramel cracked between Meredith’s teeth like thin ice.

Sunglasses sauntered first, rolling his shoulders. Muffler followed half a step behind, forming a loose semicircle that funneled them against the cart. The vendor busied himself polishing a kettle, pretending not to notice.

“Relax,” Sunglasses said, palms lifted, grin wide enough to show a chipped incisor. “We’re just—”

Helena cut in before he could finish. “You’re just leaving.” Her voice remained calm and polite, exactly the same as the tone she used when correcting the waiter for placing the wrong tableware. She felt Meredith press closer, sticky fingers clutching the hem of her coat.

Sunglasses’s eyebrows went up. “Hey, no need to get frosty. We saw the little one droped her doll back there.” He nodded in the direction of the riverbank. “Thought we’d be good Samaritans.”

Meredith blinked. “I didn’t bring a doll.”

“Must’ve been some other kids,” Muffler said. His eyes, pale green and bloodshot, slid to Helena’s handbag. “Nice bag. Limited edition?”

Helena shifted her weight, felt the concealed weight of the Lady’s Aegis Umbrella in the inner pocket—steel shaft, taser tip, monogrammed. Mother’s idea of practical accessorizing. She measured distances: ten paces to the pedestrian light, fifteen to the nearest cluster of adults. The vendor's hand hovered over that piece of rag.

“We’re fine,” she said. “Thank you for your concern.” She guided Meredith left, intending to skirt around them.

Sunglasses stepped sideways, blocking again. “You sure? Kingsport can be rough after dark. Maybe we walk you to your car.” His breath smelled of cinnamon gum and something sour.

“I’m afraid that won’t be necessary.” Helena let a chill seep into the words, the same frost that silenced boardrooms when executives tried to steamroll her. She felt her pulse steady, almost slow. A strange clarity descended, the way it did before a fencing bout: every motion precued, every breath counted.

Meredith, brave but not stupid, slipped her small hand into Helena’s. “Hel, the light’s about to change.”

Across the intersection, the white walking man blinked, counting down from nine. Eight.

Sunglasses’s grin faltered; Muffler’s fingers drummed against his thigh. Helena noticed the twitch and knew the script: escalate fast, grab, run. She adjusted her stance, heel angled, weight on the ball of her foot. Mother’s voice from years ago: If they want your purse, give it to them. If they want you, make them pay every inch.

Seven.

“Look, lady—” Sunglasses began.

Helena moved first. She flicked her wrist; the caramel apple shot forward like a crimson comet and smacked Sunglasses square on the mirrored lens. Sticky sugar exploded across his face. He yelped, staggered back, blinded.

She pivoted and shoved Meredith ahead. “Go!”

They sprinted. Boots hammered the bricks; Meredith’s coat flapped like a flag. Behind them, a muffled curse, pounding footsteps. Helena didn’t look back. She aimed to the crosswalk, for the sanctuary of strangers and traffic cameras.

The countdown hit three.

A hand snagged her handbag strap, yanking her off balance. She spun, used the momentum to drive her elbow hard into Muffler’s ribs. Air whooshed out of him; his grip loosened. She followed with a knee, missed, but the umbrella was already sliding from her pocket. She whipped it up, pressed the hidden stud. A blue arc crackled between carbon-steel spokes.

Muffler recoiled, eyes wide. “Hey, hey—”

The pedestrian signal blared, a high-pitched chirp for the visually impaired. Traffic surged forward. A taxi honked, long and angry. Sunglasses barreled up, caramel still streaking his cheeks, fury overriding caution.

Helena angled the umbrella like a rapier. “Back off.”

For a heartbeat, the tableau held: two predators, one protector, a child hugging the traffic pole. Then a cyclist skidded to a stop between them, helmet cam blinking red. “Everything okay here?” he demanded.

Sunglasses glanced at the camera, at the gathering witnesses. He forced a laugh, raised sticky palms. “Just a misunderstanding.” He backed away, dragging Muffler with him. They melted into the stream of pedestrians heading for the subway stairs.

Helena’s lungs burned. She lowered the umbrella and clicked it shut, and only then noticed her hands trembling. She curled them into fists, willed the tremor to stop. Meredith crept closer, eyes shining.

“Hel… you zap him.”

“Threat assessment,” Helena managed, voice steady again. “Mother’s self-defense tutor. Lesson four.”

Meredith’s grin split her face. “Can I learn that?”

“When you’re twelve.” Helena exhaled, long and slow, felt the adrenaline ebb into a metallic aftertaste. She knelt, wiped caramel from Meredith’s chin with a tissue. “And we won’t mention the apples to Mother.”

“Deal.” Meredith held out her pinky; Helena hooked it with her own.

The cyclist watched the hoodies disappear, then offered, “You want me to call the cops?”

Helena considered. Reporting meant statements, press, Mother’s tight smile. Not reporting meant the men might try again, somewhere darker. She shook her head. “Thank you, but we’re late for dinner.” She produced a business card—Langford Holdings, Vice-President. “If your footage shows their faces clearly, email me. There’ll be a reward.”

He nodded, clipped the card to his handlebar, and pedaled off.

Helena straightened her coat and tucked the umbrella away. The sky had gone the color of wet ash; the chess-piece towers now glowed with internal light, kings and queens preparing for night. Somewhere on the other side, Mrs. Langford would be checking her diamond watch, murmuring about punctuality.

Meredith tugged her hand. “Tessa’s apple got mushed.”

Helena looked down. The second caramel apple was lying in the drainage ditch. The stem was broken and the sugar coating had cracked like colorful glass. She nudged it with her toe. “We’ll buy her chocolates instead. She’ll survive.”

They crossed the intersection with the remaining pedestrians. Behind them, the vendor finally moved, lifting his kettle, calling, “Hey, miss! You forgot change!”

Helena didn’t turn. “Keep it,” she said over her shoulder. “For the entertainment.”

At the next block, she paused beneath a wrought-iron streetlamp just beginning to flicker on. She could still feel the ghost of Muffler’s grip on her strap, still smell the cinnamon-sour breath. She flexed her fingers and watched the tremor subside. Lesson five, she thought, would be learning to live with the afterimage.

Meredith swung their joined hands. “Hel?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think they’ll come back?”

Helena gazed across the river toward Cedar Heights, where the Langford mansion waited on its hill like a lit castle. “Not if they’re smart.” She squeezed Meredith’s hand. “And if they do, we’ll be ready.”

They walked on, boots crunching salt crystals, the city closing around them with its million yellow windows. Somewhere a siren wailed, then faded. Helena tasted iron on the wind again, but this time it felt like warning, like promise. She adjusted her handbag, felt the umbrella’s solid weight, and quickened her pace toward the warm light of home.

Helena’s fingers found the squat chrome cylinder in the side pocket of her trench coat before the taller of the two drifters finished his sentence. The label read “Universal Tag-B-Gone,” cheery white letters on a bubble-gum-pink ground. Tourist junk, anyone would assume—unless they noticed the safety catch and the micro-nozzle rated for 250 psi. Ninety percent capsaicin, food-grade emulsifier, a proprietary propellant that atomized the oil into a fog no wider than a dinner plate. She had tested it once on a junk-yard mastiff; the memory of the animal’s shriek still pricked her ears.

“Evening, ladies,” the tall one drawled, rocking forward so the street-lamp slid across the scar under his left eye. “Nice night for a stroll. Maybe you got spare change for two hungry veterans?”

His partner, shorter and wider, drifted to Helena’s flank, palms open, blocking the alley mouth that opened onto Carousel Row. Beyond them, Liberty Gardens’ antique lights twinkled like low stars; a calliope wheezed out a nursery tune. No one else close enough to matter.

Helena flicked the catch with her thumb. “Step back,” she said, voice flat, the tone she used on field recruits who thought rules were optional.

The tall man grinned, gold canine flashing. “We’re just being neighbor—”

She tilted the canister, squeezed. A hiss, almost dainty, and a cone of pale mist kissed his corneas. He inhaled surprise, and that was enough; the capsaicin rode the breath straight into sinuses. A gargling cough tore loose. His hands flew to his face as if it were on fire—which, chemically speaking, it now was.

The partner lunged. Helena pivoted, weight on the ball of her left foot, and snapped a low front kick into the triangle of nerves just below his kneecap. Cartilage clicked; the leg folded. She continued the spin, coat flaring, and brought her heel down on the second man’s instep—exactly where the tarsals met the metatarsals. Bone protested; he collapsed beside his wheezing friend.

Twelve seconds, start to finish.

Her phone vibrated once—two short pulses. She slid it out with her free hand. The lock-screen notification glowed green:

[2 threats neutralized]

[SP: 32/100 → next level]

The counter ticked upward to 33. Somewhere in a server rack on Larkspur Isle, an algorithm nodded in digital approval.

Helena exhaled through her nose, the only sign that her pulse had jumped. She wiped the nozzle on a napkin lifted from the roasted-chestnut cart, then dropped the tissue into the vendor’s trash bag. The elderly vendor watched, tongs frozen mid-rotation. She tucked a five-dollar bill under the corner of his cash-box.

“Sorry about the drama,” she told him. “Keep the change.”

He looked at the crumpled bill, then at the two men curled on the cobblestones like discarded puppets, and nodded slowly. “God bless America,” he managed.

Helena was already moving toward the sound of children’s laughter near the playground gate. The calliope music grew louder, bright and innocent.

Meredith burst from the crowd, cheeks pink, two candy apples raised like trophies. “I picked strawberry for Tessa!” The crimson shell gleamed under the string lights; sugar crystals caught the glow and threw it back like tiny prisms.

Helena allowed herself half a smile. “I’m sure she’ll love it.” She brushed a fleck of pepper residue from her cuff, checking the breeze. No blow-back; good. “Let’s move, superstar.”

Meredith seized Helena’s sleeve with sticky fingers, tugging her past the wrought-iron fence toward the playground’s rubber-matted entrance. The girl’s excitement radiated like space-heaters on a winter platform. Helena lengthened her stride just enough to keep the leash of Meredith’s urgency slack, eyes sweeping the milling families, the nannies parked on benches, the lone juggler still packing torches into a duffel.

Every third face she logged automatically: gender, height, probable weight, dominant hand, exit vector. A habit drilled deeper than muscle memory. The algorithm in her phone might count points; her own ledger counted vulnerabilities.

They passed the bronze statue of Mayor Whitfield—pigeons roosting on his tricorn—and cut across the sand-colored path. Beyond the monkey-bar dome, dusk had pooled thick enough for the lamp-posts to hum awake. Shadows stretched and overlapped, turning the gardens into a paper-cut diorama.

Meredith skipped ahead, braids bouncing. “Do you think Tessa will share?” she called over her shoulder.

“Doubtful,” Helena answered. “Strawberry’s serious currency.”

The girl giggled, the sound bright enough to notch the evening open. For a moment the scent of chrysanthemums, burnt sugar, and distant river brine braided into something like peace.

Helena felt the moment, filed it, then set it aside. Peace was a luxury item; she traveled light.

At the playground gate she paused, letting Meredith dart through first. A lone teenager leaned against the fence, hoodie up, earbuds in, thumbs drumming a rhythm only he could hear. Helena watched his reflection in a chrome swing post—no eye-tracking, no micro-gesture toward a hidden partner. Just a kid killing time.

She stepped inside.

The rubber mat gave softly under her boots, muting footsteps. Children’s voices ricocheted off equipment: a chorus of squeals, commands, the occasional adult warning. Helena located exits—three, including the service gate behind the maintenance shed. She noted the shed’s padlock: standard brass, five-pin, pickable in forty seconds if you hurried.

Meredith ran to the low zip-line, candy apple held aloft like a signal flare. “Come push me!”

Helena glanced at her watch—analog face, no smart features. Twenty minutes until the rendezvous at Angelica Fountain. Plenty of buffer. She walked over, planted a hand between Meredith’s shoulder blades, and sent the girl gliding. Wind snapped sugar crystals loose; they spun in her wake like dust from a comet.

“Higher!” Meredith demanded.

Helena obliged, each push measured, gaze flicking across the perimeter. A toddler waddled in front of the slide; his mother swooped him up, laughing. Two pre-teens compared phone screens near the seesaw, thumbs zooming. Normal. All normal.

Still, the itch persisted—the sense of a lens focusing somewhere beyond visible spectrum. She had learned not to dismiss that itch.

Meredith’s zip-line hit the bumper. She hopped off, landing cat-solid. “Again?”

“One more,” Helena said. “Then we collect Tessa and head home.”

The girl climbed back on, and Helena’s phone vibrated a second time—different pattern: three short, one long. Priority. She slid it out, angling the screen away from Meredith.

Encrypted text from handler “Keller” pulsed:

Package delayed. New ETA 21:40. Possible hostiles in Wildwood Maze. Maintain visual on Meredith. Do not exit gardens south.

Helena thumbed acknowledge, deleted the thread. 21:40—forty extra minutes in the open. She exhaled through her teeth, barely audible.

Meredith zipped back, sneakers skidding. “Did you hear me? I said I’m gonna be a pilot when I grow up. Like, clouds and everything.”

Helena pocketed the phone. “Good choice. Sky’s less crowded than the ground.”

The girl tilted her head. “You okay? You look… sharper.”

Helena felt the corner of her mouth twitch—almost a smile, almost surprise. Kids noticed more than adults gave them credit for. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just thinking.”

Meredith accepted that with a child’s resilience, turning to scan the playground. “Tessa’s late.”

“She’ll be here.” Helena guided the girl toward the bench nearest the service gate—close to an exit, back to a fence, sightlines clear. She sat, coat folding like dark wings. Meredith climbed up beside her, swinging short legs, candy apple sticky on her palms.

Minutes unspooled. The lamplight thickened from amber to honey. A pair of joggers passed outside the fence, their footfalls syncopated. Helena tracked them until distance swallowed the sound.

At 19:37 a woman in a navy peacoat entered the playground, hand-in-hand with a smaller girl—Tessa, barrette shaped like a butterfly. Helena recognized the barrette; she had clipped it in place that morning. She rose.

Meredith waved enthusiastically. “Tessa! Over here!”

Tessa tugged her guardian forward. Helena’s eyes flicked to the woman—Natalie Brooks, Langford dynasty staff, face tight with apology.

“Sorry,” Natalie breathed as they reached the bench. “Subway stalled at Ashford. Signal outage.”

Helena nodded once. “We’re moving to Angelica Fountain early. Stay behind me, three paces.”

Natalie’s pupils dilated—fear or relief, hard to tell. She complied. Meredith was already sharing her candy apple, strawberry glaze smearing both girls’ fingers. Helena scanned once more, marking the joggers’ return path, the teenager now gone, a new figure in a dark windbreaker loitering near the maintenance gate.

Windbreaker met her gaze, looked away too quickly. Helena felt her heartbeat slow, the familiar drop into controlled descent. She tapped Meredith’s shoulder. “Time to go, superstar.”

Meredith groaned but obeyed, wiping her hands on her jeans. Helena led them out, positioning herself between the children and the windbreaker. As they passed the gate she palmed the Tag-B-Gone again, thumb on the safety.

No footsteps followed. Not yet.

The gardens’ paths twisted like spilled ribbon. Helena kept their pace leisurely—no reason to telegraph urgency—yet her internal clock ticked louder than the calliope. Every intersection she paused, let the girls choose a direction, then guided them toward the fountain. A couple paused to take selfies; a street magician packed cards into a velvet roll. Normal. All normal.

Except the itch had become a burn.

At the rose arbor she slowed. Overhanging vines cast lattice shadows across the walkway. Beyond it, Angelica Fountain’s basin glimmered, lights under the water turning the spray into falling glass. A perfect kill box, she noted: open sight, limited cover.

She halted the group behind the arbor’s brick pillar. “Wait here.”

Natalie opened her mouth, closed it. Helena stepped to the edge, scanning the fountain rim—stone benches, a vendor closing a cooler, a man reading on a tablet. No windbreaker. She checked her watch: 20:02. Thirty-eight minutes to spare.

She keyed a short code into her phone, activating the perimeter ping: a low-frequency pulse that would register any device transmitting within fifty meters. Three hits: the vendor’s card reader, the reader’s phone, and—fourth quadrant, north-west—a burner broadcasting bursts every twelve seconds.

Helena lifted her gaze to the darkness beyond the fountain. Somewhere in that black, lenses were already focusing.

She returned to the girls. Meredith looked up, eyes wide. “Is the package here?”

“Not yet,” Helena said. She knelt, adjusting Meredith’s collar, voice soft. “When I say ‘strawberry,’ you take Tessa and walk straight to the ice-cream kiosk. Don’t look back. Understand?”

Meredith nodded, sugar-sticky fingers curling around her friend’s hand.

Helena straightened. Her coat settled like armor. The fountain lights shimmered behind her, painting the path in shifting silver. She drew one measured breath, tasting copper and night air, and waited for the next twelve seconds to begin.