Chapter 28
VAUGHN
Riley is sitting on the wooden bench in front of the Thompsons' house, laughing at something Howard is saying. His face is red with amusement, and he’s gesturing with a beer bottle in his hand while Loraine, beside him, shakes her head and says, "Howard, that's not how it happened; that fish was half that size at most."
I stand at the kitchen window and watch them.
It’s early evening; the sun hangs low over the neighborhood rooftops, drenching everything in a honey-colored light.
Riley is wearing one of Loraine’s T-shirts—too tight, too short, with a print that says "World's Best Nurse"—and she looks better in it than in probably any evening gown she’s ever worn.
We’ve only been here since yesterday, and yet I can feel how comfortable Riley already feels. Two days of getting to know her parents, sitting at the kitchen table, eating sandwiches, and exchanging stories. Two days in which the world felt like a place where one could stay.
But I was wrong.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Valentino.
I walk into the hallway, away from the window, away from Riley’s laughter.
"Yeah?"
"We have a problem." Valentino’s voice sounds different than usual. Not panicked—Valentino doesn't get panicked; the extortionists in Calabria and the long years on the run trained that out of him. But tense. Alert like a dog with its ears up.
"Talk."
"Silver SUV. Chevrolet Tahoe, new generation, tinted windows. Has driven through the street twice in the last three hours. Slowly. Too slowly for someone looking for an address. Just right for someone staking out a house."
My stomach knots. We’ve known since breakfast this morning that we had to leave, but we had successfully suppressed it until this moment.
"Plate?"
"Nevada. I photographed it and sent it to Griffin. He’s checking it now."
Nevada. Not Oregon, not Idaho. Nevada. A car with Nevada plates in a residential street in a Portland suburb is about as inconspicuous as a polar bear in the Sahara.
"Distance?"
"The last time, he parked at the end of the block, about a hundred and fifty meters south. Five minutes, then he moved on. That was twenty minutes ago."
I close my eyes and calculate. Cross evaluated the gas station cameras on I-93 and identified Valentino’s Mercedes. Heading north. From there, there are toll booths and traffic cameras he could query—but that takes time and contacts. Griffin had estimated forty-eight to seventy-two hours.
We’ve been here for forty-two hours.
Cross is faster than I assumed. Significantly faster.
Either he has better contacts within the authorities than Griffin suspects, or he used another method—perhaps a private surveillance network, perhaps an AI-supported plate search, perhaps simply money in the right places.
Ex-Delta Force. Then Blackwater. This man has resources that aren't in official databases.
"Are you sure it’s Cross?"
"I’m not sure about anything. But a silver Tahoe with Nevada plates driving past a house three times where the daughter of a Las Vegas casino mogul is staying? That’s either Cross or the unluckiest coincidence since the sinking of the Titanic."
He’s right.
"We have to go," I say.
"Now?"
"Now."
Silence on the other end. Two seconds. Then: "I’ll be in front of the house in five minutes. Tell Riley to pack."
He hangs up.
I stand in the Thompsons' hallway and stare at my phone. Through the wall, I hear Riley’s laughter. Howard’s deep voice. Loraine’s protesting "The fish wasn't that big, Howard!"
Shortly, we will be gone from here. The chairs on the porch will stand abandoned, the wind chime will tinkle for no one, and Loraine will stand in her kitchen wondering if her daughter is coming back this time.
I hate Richard Blackstone. I’ve hated him for thirty years, and it was a clean, focused hate that kept me going. But in this moment, I hate him in a new way—not for what he did to my parents, but for what he’s doing to Riley right now.
She’s had her family back for two days. Forty-eight hours, and now she has to leave again because a man she gave twenty-seven years of her life to cannot accept that she no longer belongs to him. Or can he?
I can't imagine Blackstone would violate the contract. He knows he’s already lost his daughter; why lose his empire as well? On the other hand, people do illogical and stupid things all the time. Ultimately, I can't say for certain.
We’ll find out.
My phone vibrates again. Griffin.
Plate registered to Meridian Security Corp. Guess who the owner is.
I don't have to guess. Meridian Security Corp. is the firm through which Blackstone bills his private security. The same Meridian as the hotel where I rented the penthouse suite. The man is so vain he plasters his own name on everything.
Cross, I type back.
Cross. He’s not alone—Meridian has three employees registered in the Portland region. Two more vehicles, a black Ford and a white Dodge. Vaughn, this isn't a solo op. This is a team.
I take a deep breath. Cross has mobilized an entire team. Not one person glancing as they drive by, but three vehicles, three operators, a coordinated surveillance.
It doesn't make any sense. Blackstone signed the contract and officially called Cross off. And yet, three cars from his security firm are sitting in Portland.
Either Blackstone is playing a double game—signing the contract while simultaneously letting Cross continue to keep all options open. Or Cross is actually acting on his own, which means Blackstone’s new security chief is a loner who answers to no authority.
Both are dangerous. But the second is worse, because no one can call back a man who’s off the leash.
I pocket the phone and go outside.
Riley looks at me as I step onto the porch. Her laughter dies.
"What happened?" she asks.
I look at Howard and Loraine, sitting side by side on the bench, their faces already darkening because they sense something is wrong.
"We have to go," I say. "Now."
Riley’s eyes narrow. "Cross?"
"A silver SUV with Nevada plates. Driven through the street three times. Valentino identified it. Griffin confirms: Meridian Security. It’s Cross, and he has a team."
Loraine’s hand grips Howard’s arm. Howard stands up. He’s half a head taller than me and at least twenty kilos heavier, and the expression on his face says he’s ready to stop that silver SUV with his bare hands.
"You can stay," he says. "We’ll protect you."
"Howard." My voice is calm but firm. "These are former military operators. Three men, three vehicles, professional equipment. They are surveilling this house. If we stay, the situation escalates, and your neighbors will be standing behind police tape tomorrow morning."
Howard’s jaw works. He wants to argue. But he’s a smart man, and smart men recognize when reality is stronger than desire.
Riley stands up. No tears, no hesitation. She hugs Loraine—briefly, tightly, wordlessly. Then Howard.
Then she turns to me.