27. Jon
TWENTY-SEVEN
Jon
The documents press against my skin as I move toward the dining room, each step silent on the polished marble.
The weight of what I carry—names, dates, proof—burns like a brand against my lower back.
Evidence enough to dismantle Marcus Holbrook, to finally expose the puppet strings he’s been yanking for decades.
But that only matters if I make it to Aria.
I press forward, each movement deliberate, blending into the opulence around me.
The corridor stretches like a gauntlet, chandeliers dripping with crystal casting refracted halos across glossy walls.
I stay in the shadows, slipping between the pools of light like a ghost. Every creak of the floorboards, every shift of air registers like an alarm in my head.
I’ve made it this far, but the longer I’m loose, the tighter the noose will draw.
The dining room door stands partially ajar at the end of the hall. Voices float out in low cadence, muffled by thick oak. Wolfe’s drawl, theatrical and deliberate. Marcus’s tone, clipped and calculating. And woven somewhere between them, Aria’s silence.
My Glock is warm in my hand. Full magazine. Round chambered. Knife tucked at my waistband. Delta team is still twenty minutes out—an eternity when you’re running out of time.
Ten more steps. Eight. Six.
A guard rounds the corner, sharp and sudden. His eyes lock on mine. Recognition hits a second later—the prisoner who shouldn’t be free.
“Intruder!” he shouts, reaching for his weapon.
Shit.
I lift the Glock, aim instinctively, calculate the angle to avoid hitting the dining room beyond. Before I can pull the trigger, chaos erupts.
Three more appear—one from a hidden side entrance I hadn’t noticed, and two from the far end of the corridor. The door bursts open, and out comes Wolfe’s head of security. Big, fast, and pissed.
“Target located,” he barks into his radio, weapon trained on my center mass. “East corridor, approaching dining hall.”
Four against one. Bad odds just became impossible odds. I’ve survived worse. But not often.
I fire as I dive, aiming for the closest threat. One guard drops with a grunt, shot in the shoulder. The second round misses as the chief barrels into me, driving me down hard. My ribs scream on impact with the marble.
The Glock skitters across the floor.
Rough hands grab for me. I twist, elbow connecting with someone’s jaw, but it buys me seconds, not freedom. A boot slams against my neck, pinning me down. The cold seeps into my skin, into my bones. I’m face first on the polished floor, vision swimming.
So close. Five more seconds and I would have reached her.
“Sir, we have him,” the security chief growls into his radio, pressing harder. “Threat contained.”
Through the buzz in my ears, I catch the sound of Wolfe responding. Garbled. Dismissive.
Hands wrench my wrists behind my back, zip ties slicing into skin. Another set digs through my waistband, retrieving the knife with a satisfied grunt. But it’s the documents they want. One of the guards yanks them free, the folded pages crinkling with the sound of damning truths.
“What about these?” A gloved hand pulls the documents from where they’re pressed against my lower back. Marcus’s crimes, exposed.
“Give them to me.” A guard behind him pulls out a radio. “Sir, we have him. What are your orders?”
“Secure him in Containment Level B,” Wolfe’s voice crackles through. Cold. Impatient. “I’m in the middle of something important. No interruptions.”
They drag me back the way I came, away from the dining room, away from Aria. Every footstep feels like a blade. Each inch of distance is a wound.
I memorize the route reflexively. Two right turns. Down a narrow staircase that stinks of concrete and bleach. Past a biometric scanner and a steel door requiring both keycard and numeric code. I log every detail.
Containment level B. Not back to my previous cell—somewhere deeper, more secure. The kind of place designed to hold someone who’s already escaped once.
The lights change from the warm glow of the upper floors to harsh fluorescents that cast everything in unforgiving clarity. The air grows colder, heavy with the scent of concrete and steel. Underground bunker, professionally constructed.
They shove me into a room that redefines the word prison. Cement walls, harsh fluorescent light, and a single steel chair bolted to the center. No windows. No distractions. Only surveillance—four cameras in each corner, red lights blinking like eyes that never blink.
The security chief oversees the process like a man taking pleasure in his craft. He straps my ankles and wrists to the chair with reinforced steel cuffs, checking each one himself.
“Mr. Wolfe will deal with you after tonight’s dinner concludes,” the chief says, checking each restraint personally. “He’s planned this evening for years. You’re merely an inconvenience, not a real threat.”
I don’t respond. He wants a reaction. Instead, I lock onto him with silence sharper than any blade.
His jaw ticks. He leans in, voice a low snarl. “Your team’s not coming. The girl will listen to everything Wolfe has to say, and when he’s done ruining her, he’ll come for you.”
He straightens, nodding to the guards. “Triple the patrols. I want eyes on every entrance, every exit. No one gets in or out without direct authorization from me or Mr. Wolfe.”
The guards file out. The door slams shut. Electronic locks hiss into place, sealing me in. I test the restraints one by one. Industrial strength. No give. No weakness.
I’m completely alone and on my own.
The chair doesn’t budge—welded directly to the floor. The cuffs show no sign of manufacturing defects or improper application. Whoever designed this cell knew exactly what they were doing.
But they missed one thing.
Sewn into the inner lining of my waistband—my backup. A lock-pick set thin as wire, invisible to the untrained eye. They found the knife. Found the documents. But not the thing that’s saved my life more times than I can count.
I close my eyes. Breathe.
Pain throbs across my ribs. Left side—definitely bruised. Maybe cracked. Vision blurred slightly on the right. Cut above the eyebrow—bleeding has stopped. Thumb dislocation imminent. It’ll hurt like hell. I’ll deal.
Above me, Aria sits at a table surrounded by monsters.
Wolfe wants to use the truth like a weapon. Wants to unravel everything she knows. The reunion he promised will be nothing but a calculated psychological ambush. If he succeeds in turning her against herself, against me, we lose everything.
And I can’t let that happen.
Even if I have to break myself apart to stop him.