72. GRAYSON
72
GRAYSON
Normally, Chicago’s Union Station was stunning. A grand and bustling landmark, it was known for its architectural beauty and historical significance. The main hall featured a soaring one-hundred-fifteen-foot atrium, crowned by a vaulted skylight, bathing the marble walls and floors in natural light. Around the periphery, various waiting areas, shops, and cafés catered to the heavy traffic of people whose footsteps and rolling suitcases echoed in the space.
But today, dangers lurked in every corner.
Over a hundred people ambled around the Great Hall, waiting to board their train. Any one of them could be one of Vosch’s, ready to pounce or, heaven forbid, detonate an explosive hidden in a briefcase or suitcase.
I wasn’t truly alone here, of course. The CIA had planted people this time, but they kept it to two men—less chance of being spotted. The guy ordering a coffee was one of ours, as was the guy on the far end of the room, both armed and ready for a fight if it came down to that. There was also a protocol to evacuate Union Station if things went south, along with many other layers of protection, but no matter what we did, if this turned ugly, not everyone would make it out alive.
My heart thrashed against my ribs as I walked toward the far corner of the building, and the second I spotted him, my throat ran dry.
Vosch sat on a bench with his arms spread out, like he was a king waiting to be served, while his minions stood around him. They couldn’t be more obvious if they tried, vision sweeping the place, arms folded in front of them while they searched for any sign of a problem. I counted ten of them, but there might be more.
They tensed when they spotted me, all of them rotating their torsos and tightening their positions around their leader.
Each click, click, click of my steps was a thunderous reminder of what was at stake. To my left, a mother tenderly wiped her toddler’s face while behind her, another cradled an infant in a chest carrier. My heart clenched, a bittersweet ache of longing for a future that suddenly felt so fragile. Would I ever get to hold my own child? I pushed the thought away, reminding myself that if I failed, those kids might not be here tomorrow.
As I approached Vosch, one of his henchmen materialized before me, his meaty palm slamming against my chest. I met his coffee-colored eyes, my gaze a silent, deadly warning.
I had to admit, it was satisfying, watching his hand fall away, as if scorched.
“Arms up,” he growled, trying to reclaim his authority.
I complied, feigning irritation to mask the adrenaline coursing through my veins. His hands roamed efficiently, searching for hidden weapons down my left leg, across to the right, then back up my torso. My short sleeves offered no concealment, so thankfully, he didn’t pat my arms down and risk pricking himself with the drop of poison that would’ve spelled death for us both.
When he reached into my back pocket, I tensed imperceptibly. He extracted my cell phone, a small victory in his eyes as he nodded toward the bench where Vosch waited.
Little did they know, the deadliest weapon of all wasn’t a gun or even the poison on my watch; it was my resolve, honed razor-sharp and ready to strike.
Taking a seat on the far end of the bench, I faced forward and didn’t make eye contact with one of the most dangerous men in the world. Who now sat four feet to my right.
I quickly studied every possible escape route, just as I had done before I got here, but this time, I was able to calculate the distance and evaluate how many people might get in my way. The grand staircase loomed ahead, its twin flights sweeping upward like outstretched arms, but reaching it required me to get through a herd of civilians. The most realistic avenues of escape were the train bays—gigantic doorways where concrete platforms offered pedestrians a safe boarding experience onto the passenger trains that dispatched from Chicago.
If I walked far enough into one of the platforms, it would eventually lead to an uncovered exterior where I could run. Ideal? No.
But it might be doable.
Vosch didn’t make a move, my presence seemingly inconsequential to him—or so he wanted me to believe, anyway. I swallowed, waiting for him to make the first move because my biggest play here was patience.
Eventually, Vosch cleared his throat. Keeping his stare forward, he said one simple line.
“You shouldn’t have put your family on that plane.”