CHAPTER 2 #2
The interior of the car is dark, but the dashboard lights cast a faint, icy glow over her features. She is searching my eyes for a weakness, for a sign of humanity she can exploit.
I refuse to give it to her.
"If you want to survive the next forty-eight hours, Gemma, I suggest you stop asking questions you don't actually want the answers to," I say, holding her gaze for a second longer than necessary before looking back at the road.
"You are alive because you are leverage.
If Marcus wants the drive, he has to go through me.
And as long as I have you, I know exactly what is on that hardware. "
It’s a logical explanation. It makes tactical sense.
It is also a complete fabrication. I already have the drive in my pocket. I don't need her to access it; I have my own people for that. I took her because leaving her in that apartment meant leaving her to die.
And for some inexplicable reason, I couldn't stomach the thought of that chaotic, arrogant smirk being erased from the world.
She stares at me for a long moment, processing my answer. She bites the inside of her cheek again. I watch the subtle movement of her jaw in my peripheral vision.
"Leverage," she repeats, the word tasting bitter in her mouth. She leans back into her seat, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "Right. Okay. So I’m just an insurance policy."
"Precisely."
"Good to know." She looks out the window again. "Just for the record, you’re a terrible kidnapper. You haven't even tied my hands. I could open this door right now and roll out onto the highway."
"The doors are locked," I inform her. "And the child safety locks are engaged in the rear. You aren't going anywhere."
"You put the child locks on?" She sounds genuinely offended.
"I prefer to minimize my variables."
I reach out and press a button on the center console. A faint, classical piano melody fills the cabin. It’s low, unobtrusive, designed to fill the silence without demanding attention.
Gemma groans, dropping her head back against the seat. "Oh my god. You are going to murder me to classical music. This is exactly what a psychopath does."
"It’s Chopin," I say, my voice deadpan. "And it’s supposed to be calming."
"It sounds like a funeral dirge. Can we put on something else? Literally anything else. Do you have any rock? Pop? A podcast about true crime? Though, actually, maybe skip the true crime. It feels a little too on the nose right now."
I ignore her complaints, letting the piano notes wash over the tension in the car. She huffs, crossing her arms tighter, but she doesn't try to change the station.
We drive for another hour. The adrenaline in her system finally begins to crash. I can see the physical toll it takes on her body. Her shoulders slump, her eyelids droop, and her head begins to bob against the window glass.
I reduce my speed slightly, ensuring the suspension absorbs the bumps in the road so she isn't jolted awake.
I don't know why I care if she sleeps. I shouldn't. She is a complication I don't need. My priority should be getting to the safe house, contacting my broker, and figuring out how to deliver the drive to Marcus without getting a bullet in the back of the head.
I reach toward the dashboard screen and tap the secure communication icon.
The system routes the call through three different encrypted servers before it connects. A small green light blinks on the display.
"Speak," a voice says through the car speakers. The audio is slightly distorted by the encryption, but the sound of someone chewing loudly is unmistakable.
"Ben," I say, keeping my voice low so I don't wake the woman sleeping two feet away from me. "I need a sterile route to the primary safe house in the Catskills. And stop eating while you're on the comms. It’s unprofessional."
"It’s three in the morning, Callum. I’m eating a cold slice of pepperoni pizza because you decided to go dark for two hours," Ben replies, entirely unfazed by my reprimand. "I lost your GPS signal when you entered the apartment building. What’s your status? Do you have the package?"
"I have the drive," I confirm. I glance at Gemma. Her head has slipped from the window and is now resting dangerously close to my shoulder. "And I have the girl."
There is a long pause on the other end of the line. The chewing stops.
"You have the girl," Ben repeats slowly. "Callum, the contract was for retrieval and elimination. Why is the target in your car?"
"Marcus sent a secondary team. Four men, tactical gear, heavy weapons. They arrived at the location before I could finish the job. I took her as leverage."
It’s the same lie I told Gemma, and it sounds just as hollow when I say it to Ben.
"A secondary team?" Ben’s voice loses all trace of its usual laid-back humor. I hear the rapid clacking of a keyboard through the speakers. "Hold on. Let me run the plates on the van you spotted."
I wait, watching the dark road ahead. The headlights cut through the thick trees lining the highway. We are deep into upstate New York now, far away from the cameras and the crowds.
Gemma shifts in her sleep, letting out a soft, distressed murmur. Her hand falls from her lap, her knuckles brushing against my thigh.
Every muscle in my body goes completely rigid at the contact.
It’s a light touch, entirely accidental, but it burns through the fabric of my trousers like a brand. I stare at her hand. Her fingers are long, ink-stained near the thumb, the nails bitten down to the quick.
I should move her hand. I should push it away.
I don't. I leave my hands firmly on the steering wheel, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.
"Callum."
Ben’s voice comes back through the speakers, sharp and urgent. It shatters the strange, quiet intimacy of the car.
"I’m here," I say, forcing my eyes back to the road.
"I just breached the communication logs for Marcus Thorne’s security firm," Ben says, his breathing suddenly heavy. "That wasn't a backup team, Callum. Marcus didn't send them to clean up the girl."
A cold, heavy sense of dread begins to pool at the base of my spine. "Explain."
"The drive she stole," Ben says, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Marcus didn't tell you what was actually on it, did he?"
"He said it was offshore accounts. Blackmail material."
"It’s not just accounts. It’s the entire ledger for the syndicate. Names, dates, assassination orders, government payoffs. The people above Marcus found out it was stolen, and they panicked."
I press my thumb against the edge of the steering wheel, my mind racing through the tactical implications. "So they sent a team to kill her."
"No," Ben says. "They sent a team to kill you ."
The silence in the car becomes absolute. Even the Chopin seems to fade into nothing.
"What are you talking about?" I ask, my voice devoid of any emotion.
"Marcus burned you, Callum," Ben says, the panic bleeding through the encrypted line.
"He told the syndicate that you orchestrated the hack.
He framed you for the theft to save his own skin.
He didn't hire you to clean up the mess.
He hired you so you would be at the apartment when the hit squad arrived. "
I stare at the dark road. The yellow lines blur together.
I am not the hunter anymore.
"There’s an open bounty on the dark web," Ben continues, his keyboard clacking furiously. "It went live twenty minutes ago. Five million dollars. For your head, and the girl’s."
I look down at Gemma. She is still sleeping, her chest rising and falling softly, completely unaware that the entire criminal underworld of the East Coast is now hunting us.
I have spent my entire life controlling my environment. I dictate the terms. I hold the gun.
Now, I am trapped in a car with a civilian, a stolen hard drive, and a price on my head that will make every mercenary from New York to Chicago come looking for me.
"Wipe my servers, Ben," I say quietly. "Burn the secondary accounts. Cut the GPS link to this car."
"Callum—"
"Do it now."
I reach out and sever the connection. The screen goes black.
I am entirely cut off.
I look at the rearview mirror. There are no headlights behind me, but I know it’s only a matter of time. They will track the car. They will track the phones. They will come for blood.
Gemma shifts again, her head finally coming to rest against my shoulder. She sighs in her sleep, a small, vulnerable sound that twists violently in my chest.
I don't push her away.
I press my foot down on the accelerator, the V8 engine roaring as the speedometer climbs past ninety.
They want to hunt me.
Let them try.