Chapter 25
The knock shatters my concentration, nearly making me drop the messenger bag filled with my investigation documents. Was it Declan?
Another knock cuts through the silence, harder this time. Remy’s warning echoes in my mind: “If you ever need help, this number will reach people I trust.”
Thirty minutes. The speed of his arrival sets off warning bells. No one should have made it here this quickly.
“Who is it?” I keep my voice level, drawing on experience from countless dangerous interviews.
“Declan Rush.” His voice resonates with authority, controlled and deep. “Open up. We’re short on time.”
I check the security camera screen. The man fills the frame—tall, broad-shouldered, with a rigid military bearing that screams training and discipline.
He holds up an ID, but what catches my attention is how he positions himself—slightly angled, giving him an optimal view of both ends of the corridor while minimizing his exposure.
I’ve observed this all too often during my work in the Middle East.
A thin envelope slides under the door. My hand shakes slightly as I retrieve it, the letter opener still gripped in my other hand.
The ID inside is heavy cardstock, detailing Declan’s credentials with several private security firms and military contractors.
The holographic seals look authentic, but in my line of work, I’ve seen perfect forgeries.
His green eyes scan the corridor with methodical precision, and even through the screen, I catch the outline of a concealed weapon beneath his tactical jacket. His hands, when he adjusts his stance, bear the telltale scars of someone intimate with violence.
“We need to move. Now.”
I grip the strap of my go-bag tighter. “How did you find me so quickly?”
Declan’s sharp green eyes track my movements. “I was already in Chicago.”
His gaze sweeps across the room, lingering on the dismantled cameras. “You mentioned someone tried to break in?”
“A few hours ago.” I shoulder my bag, my body tensing as I match his alertness. “Three men. Professional. They couldn’t crack the apartment’s security system.”
“You’re lucky they didn’t succeed.” Something flickers in his expression—recognition, maybe concern.
“I have backup here,” he adds, voice measured. “Who exactly are you?”
“Liv Consoli.” The name feels heavy on my tongue. “I’ve been working with Remy to expose Ano Montoni’s operation.”
His face remains impassive, but doubt creeps into his eyes. “Is that so?” The non-committal response sets my nerves on edge.
“Let’s go,” he commands, holding the door.
The hallway lights cast harsh shadows as we move toward the elevator. I fight the urge to look over my shoulder, though I can feel Declan’s solid presence behind me. His footsteps are nearly silent on the carpet.
The elevator arrives with a soft ding. Declan positions himself in the corner, angled for maximum visibility of both entrances.
“How do you know Remy?” I probe, studying his reflection in the polished doors.
His expression remains neutral, but something hardens in his eyes. “That’s not relevant right now.”
The doors open to the lobby. I catch our reflection in the marble—we look like normal late-night colleagues. Nothing betrays that we’re racing to save a man’s life.
Outside, the Chicago night air bites at my skin. A sleek black Mercedes idles at the curb, its dark-tinted windows concealing whatever waits inside.
The Mercedes’s driver door opens, and I tense as another man emerges. His movements are liquid precision, and even beneath his expensive suit, I recognize the coiled readiness of someone who knows violence intimately.
“Greyson Lowery,” he introduces himself. His cultured voice carries an edge that makes my skin prickle. His eyes dissect me with surgical precision—the same calculating stare I’ve encountered in warlords and interrogators.
“We’re ready,” Greyson says to Declan, though his attention never fully leaves me. I’ve interviewed enough killers to recognize that constant awareness.
Movement flickers in my peripheral vision. My muscles lock, but Declan’s subtle headshake keeps me still. Another figure materializes from the shadows, moving with predatory grace. Scarred face, eyes that have seen too much violence.
“Nolan Ward,” he says, voice like broken glass. He assesses me in one sharp glance before sliding into the passenger seat. Through the window, I watch him activate what appears to be a tactical tablet.
“Back seat,” Declan orders. His hand hovers near my elbow—not touching, but ready. The gesture hits me like a knife to the chest, too similar to Remy’s protective instincts.
I hesitate, my reporter’s training screaming warnings. Three lethal operatives, and my only connection is Remy—who might be dead while I stand here doubting. The thought propels me forward.
The Mercedes glides through Chicago’s streets, each man’s presence filling the space with unspoken danger. I’ve interviewed enough criminals and killers to recognize the practiced stillness, the contained violence. My fingers tighten around my messenger bag.
“I need to know I can trust you,” I say, meeting Declan’s intense stare. “Remy’s life depends on this.”
Greyson’s soft chuckle sends ice down my spine. His eyes find mine in the rearview mirror. “If we weren’t trustworthy, you wouldn’t be here.”
“Trust is a two-way street.” Nolan’s gravelly voice carries an edge of threat. He turns, the scarring on his face more pronounced in the passing streetlights. “You’re holding something back. We’ll find out eventually.”
“Enough.” Declan’s command cuts through the tension. “Let her speak.”
I’ve faced down warlords and traffickers, but these men radiate a different kind of danger—controlled, refined, and lethal. “How do you know Remy?”
“We are friends,” Greyson answers smoothly.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Nolan’s laugh is harsh. “She’s got teeth.”
“Eight years of investigative journalism teaches you to spot evasion,” I snap. “I’m not some civilian you need to protect. I’ve documented cartels and trafficking rings. I’ve survived three assassination attempts.”
“Four,” Declan corrects. “The coffee shop in Istanbul. The sniper missed.”
My blood runs cold. “How—”
“Remy sent us a message, telling us that if you needed help, we would be there. We vetted you thoroughly the moment we knew who you were, Eva Montoni or, more accurately, Liv Consoli.” His green eyes pin me in place.
“Your work in exposing the Ankara trafficking ring was impressive. But you got sloppy with the Syrian operation.”
“I got results.”
“You almost got killed,” Nolan interjects. “Twice.”
“And now Remy is paying for my mistakes.” The words taste bitter. “So stop testing me and tell me the plan.”
Greyson’s eyes meet mine again in the mirror. “First, tell us what’s in that bag.”
My hand tightened on the handle. “How—”
“Your tell,” Declan says. “You touch it when you’re nervous. Amateur mistake.”
“Everything. Bank records, shipping manifests, witness testimonies. Enough to destroy Ano Montoni’s empire and put him away for life.”
The silence that follows is heavy with assessment. “My father wants me to exchange everything I got on him, my entire investigation, for Remy’s life.”
I force my voice to remain steady as I outline the investigation, though my fingers won’t stop tracing the edge of my messenger bag. “Ano Montoni’s trafficking operation spans three continents. He uses shipping containers marked as agricultural exports to move people across borders.”
“And you have proof?” Nolan’s scarred face turns toward me.
“Manifests. Bank records. Heath gave me everything before—” My throat tightens. “Before the warehouse. He was terrified, but he had evidence of direct wire transfers from shell companies to Montoni’s personal accounts.”
Greyson’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “The warehouse where Remy staged your death.”
“Yes.” The word tastes bitter. “He thought he could protect me by making my father believe I was gone. But Marcus—” Rage and grief tangle in my chest. “Marcus was reporting everything back to my father. Fifteen years of loyalty to Remy, and he sold him out.”
“When did you know?” Declan’s voice carries an edge.
“Less than an hour ago. My father called.” The memory of Remy’s muffled screams makes my hands shake. “He put Remy on the phone. They were—” I swallow hard. “They were hurting him. Making sure I could hear it.”
“What are his exact terms?” Greyson’s cultured tone has turned to ice.
“I have until dawn to surrender myself and all evidence at the estate. A ‘fair trade’ for Remy’s life.” I meet Declan’s piercing stare in the darkness. “But we both know there’s nothing fair about it.”
“No witnesses.” Nolan’s rough voice fills the silence. “No loose ends.”
“My father wants this buried.” My laugh holds no humor. “Along with his daughter and the man who tried to save her.”
Declan shifts, his military bearing more pronounced. “If you enter that estate, even with handing over the proof, you won’t get out alive.”
I don’t answer. The truth sits heavy between us.
“You knew that when you called.” His words aren’t a question.
“Yes.” I grip the messenger bag tighter.
“The trade is a sham. My father wants my story buried and me dead. If I go there alone, Remy dies with me.” I force myself to meet each of their gazes.
“But if I can buy time, create enough of a distraction for you three to get past the guards and reach him…”
“That’s suicide,” Greyson states flatly.
“Maybe.” I think of Remy and everything he risked to protect me. “But at least it won’t be for nothing.”
“You should have had a backup plan.” Nolan’s snarl cuts through the tension. His scarred face twists with disgust. “Now you’ll die, and that bastard Montoni walks free. All this—” He gestures sharply at my messenger bag. “Wasted.”
The accusation hits like a physical blow, but anger flares hot in my chest. I’ve spent years being underestimated and written off as naive or foolish. Not anymore.
“You think I’m that stupid?” My voice carries all the steel I’ve forged through years of dangerous investigations. “That I’d risk everything on a single roll of the dice?”
Nolan’s eyes narrow, the scarring on his face more pronounced in the passing streetlights.
“Before Declan knocked on my door, I sent everything—every document, every recording, every piece of evidence—to two people I trust with my life.” The words taste like victory on my tongue. “People beyond my father’s reach, beyond his network of bribes and threats.”
Greyson’s eyes find mine in the rearview mirror, a glimmer of something like respect in their depths.
“If I go down tonight,” I continue, holding Nolan’s intense stare, “I’m dragging that monster with me. My death won’t bury this story. It’ll blow it wide open.” A harsh laugh escapes me. “That’s all that matters now.”
Silence fills the car. Then, unexpectedly, Nolan’s scarred face splits into a genuine smile. “I like this girl.”
The approval in his rough voice stuns me. Almost against my will, I feel my lips twitch toward a smile. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything close to amusement. The sensation is almost foreign.
I study Declan’s face as he outlines the plan and discusses it with Nolan and Greyson, searching for any hint of doubt. His expression remains impassive and controlled, betraying nothing but quiet confidence.
“You make it sound simple,” I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
“Nothing about this is simple.” Declan’s eyes lock onto mine. “Very last minute, but we’ve handled worse.”
“Have you? Because my father’s estate is a fortress. Military-grade security, armed guards, surveillance systems—”
“Which is why you’ll walk through the front door.” Nolan’s rough voice cuts through my protests. “While we slip in through their blind spots.”
“There are no blind spots.” I lean forward, frustration mounting. “Trust me, I grew up there. Every inch is monitored.”
“Every system has weaknesses.” Greyson’s cultured tone carries absolute certainty. “Especially ones run by overconfident men.”
“And if you’re wrong? If you can’t reach Remy in time—”
“Then you die.” Declan states it plainly, no sugar-coating. “Which is why we won’t fail.”
A harsh laugh escapes me. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” His green eyes pin me in place. “This isn’t about reassurance. It’s about survival.”
“And vengeance,” Nolan adds, his scarred face twisting into something dangerous. “Don’t forget that part.”
“Careful.” Greyson’s warning carries a sharp edge. “Personal vendettas get people killed.”
“Everything about this is personal.” I grip my messenger bag tighter. “My father made sure of that when he put Remy on the phone.”
The car falls silent, heavy with unspoken understanding.
“You’re scared.” Declan’s observation cuts through the tension.
I meet his gaze steadily. “Only a fool wouldn’t be.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Good. Fear keeps you sharp. Just don’t let it control you.”
Through the tinted windows, I see it—the massive iron gates of my childhood prison. My pulse quickens, but I force my breathing to remain steady.
The car rolls to a stop, and I stare at the looming silhouette of my father’s estate. The place where my mother died. Where Remy is being tortured. Where I might die tonight.