Harry Styles, a secret service agent working for British intelligence is tasked with finding the killer after a series of brutal but calculated murders across Europe. His mind is sharp, he's smart, arrogant and works with a precision that leaves no...
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Harry Styles
I want out.
I can't do this anymore.
I don't want to do this anymore.
I want out.
Her words rang over and over in my head every single moment since she'd said them to me. Finally, after all of those months of fighting it, she finally said those three words. I want out.
I knew she did, I'd known Winter wanted out of this since the first time I saw her try to escape—the night I'd wandered into her flat before I knew anything about her, only to find her overdosing, trying to escape, dying on her bathroom floor. She'd cried that night, promised to be better, told me that she was sorry, and that it wasn't her fault. From that moment, I couldn't see her as some vicious killer. She was a girl who needed help. Someone who had survived hell and was trying anything to escape, like an animal chewing off its own leg to escape a trap. But to finally hear the words, I'd stop at nothing—nothing until she was out and safe.
I knew that telling her to run wasn't going to save her, I knew that wasn't going to lead to her happily ever after, and I'd been informed at least fifty times already that it was a stupid idea. But I'd bought her time. If an officer had gotten their hands on her, I didn't know what I'd have done. I didn't know if there was anything I could do. So I did what I could to make sure she didn't end up in that situation. The truth was, she'd killed people, hundreds of them, and there weren't going to be too many arguments I could make to get her out, not even if I tried to force it on Marshall.
But I could get out. An agent that killed someone, even if the job was off the record, it wasn't something I was a stranger to. I'd killed many people off record, for Marshall. And I had records of it, records I'd made of those conversations. Because I knew deep down that Marshall getting me to do his dirty work for him, and Marshall having connections to people like Roman, was much worse than anything I could have done.
Niall and Louis had helped with that.
They told me what they'd done, the hours of looking through the archives to find more dirt on Marshall. And what they had done had worked. I spent two nights in a black sight holding cell, before Marshall himself unlocked the door and let me out.
Part of me had hoped and prayed that Winter was somewhere safe, that she had run and found a pace to hide from this until I could come and find her. And she had, for a little while. Niall told me she'd broken into his flat. But she had broken in to clean her injuries, not to stay. He told me how he'd given her something warm to eat, something to put on her feet. He told me how she'd bolted out of the bathroom window before he could stop her.
Then Niall and Louis sat me down like it was some sort of intervention.
