CHAPTER 26
Callum
The speaker in the corner of the shipping container clicks, the faint hiss of static cutting off abruptly.
Absolute darkness settles over the steel box.
I do not move. I do not shout. I stand perfectly still in the center of the container, listening to the heavy, rhythmic thud of my own heart.
Arthur Vance.
Elias’s son.
I review the tactical failure with cold, merciless clarity.
I assumed Elias was the architect of the syndicate's recovery effort because he was the one sitting in the bunker.
I eliminated the immediate threat and considered the board cleared.
It was a fatal miscalculation. I underestimated the son's ambition, and I underestimated his intelligence.
He didn't want Pippa. He wanted the money. And he knew that as long as I was standing next to Gemma, he couldn't get to her. So he created a ghost node, sent a message he knew she couldn't ignore, and lured me into a steel cage three thousand miles away from the only thing I actually care about.
Hold the incineration protocol on the container. Keep him locked inside, but do not kill him yet.
Arthur’s voice echoing over the radio frequency of the dead guards outside replays in my mind.
He had me trapped. He had the fuel ready. He was going to burn me alive, and then he suddenly changed his mind.
Arthur Vance is not a merciful man. He changed the protocol because the parameters of his leverage shifted. He went to the alley to take Gemma. Gemma knew I was in the container.
She lied to him.
She must have fabricated a reason to keep me alive. She traded her compliance, or her knowledge of the accounts, for my life. She handed herself over to a monster to buy me time.
The realization does not bring relief. It brings a violent, suffocating wave of rage that completely overrides eight years of psychological conditioning.
I drop the submachine gun, letting it hang from the tactical sling across my chest.
I reach down into the dark, my hands finding the black canvas bag I dropped on the corrugated metal floor. I unzip it by touch. I pull out the remaining block of C4. It is roughly a pound of pliable explosive.
Detonating high explosives inside a sealed steel container is a mathematical death sentence.
The overpressure—the massive, instantaneous displacement of air—has nowhere to go.
It bounces off the steel walls, turning the air itself into a blunt-force weapon that can rupture eardrums, collapse lungs, and turn internal organs to liquid.
I do not care.
I walk to the front of the container. I run my bare hands over the heavy steel doors, feeling for the vertical seam where the two doors meet. I press the C4 directly into the gap, molding it flat against the metal, concentrating the mass near the heavy exterior locking mechanism.
I pull a blasting cap from my vest, insert it into the explosive, and connect the receiver wire.
I turn around and walk to the exact opposite end of the container. Forty feet of distance. It is not enough to negate the shockwave, but it is the maximum distance available.
I crouch down in the corner, pressing my back flat against the corrugated steel wall.
I pull the remote detonator from my pocket.
I take a deep breath of the stale, freezing air. I open my mouth wide to equalize the pressure in my sinus cavities and prevent my eardrums from completely blowing out. I press my left arm tightly over my ears, tucking my head down between my knees.
I press the button.
The world ceases to exist.
There is no sound. Sound requires a functioning auditory system, and mine is instantly overloaded. There is only a blinding flash of white light and a physical impact so massive it feels like the container has been dropped from an airplane.
The shockwave hits the back wall, compressing my body against the steel. The air is violently sucked out of my lungs. My vision fractures into a chaotic static of black and gray.
For three agonizing seconds, I am completely paralyzed.
I force my eyes open.
The heavy steel doors at the front of the container are gone. They have been blown completely off their hinges, leaving a massive, jagged square of dark, rainy sky. Thick, acrid smoke pours out of the opening.
I push myself up off the floor.
My equilibrium is shattered. I stumble forward, my boots catching on the uneven metal grooves. A warm, wet sensation tickles my upper lip. I reach up, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth. It comes away smeared with dark blood from my nose.
A high-pitched, continuous whine rings in my ears, drowning out the sound of the rain.
I pull the MP5 submachine gun up, gripping it tightly to anchor myself, and stagger out of the container.
The freezing rain hits my face, shocking my nervous system back online.
The shipping yard is in chaos. The two heavy steel doors of the container are lying thirty feet away, twisted and blackened.
A mercenary is lying on the wet concrete near the doors. The blast caught him completely off guard. He is bleeding from his ears, struggling to push himself up onto his hands and knees, his rifle lying uselessly in a puddle.
I don't break stride.
I walk up to him, point the barrel of the submachine gun at the back of his tactical helmet, and pull the trigger.
The weapon bucks in my hands. The man collapses flat against the concrete.
I keep moving.
I navigate the maze of shipping containers, relying entirely on muscle memory and the internal compass that brought me here. My hearing slowly begins to return, the high-pitched whine fading into the heavy, rhythmic drumming of the rain and the distant wail of sirens.
I reach the edge of the shipping yard. I slide under the broken chain-link fence, tearing the shoulder of my tactical vest on a piece of rusted wire, and sprint down the dark street toward the alley where I left the Mercedes.
I turn the corner.
The black SUV is sitting exactly where I left it.
The windshield is completely destroyed. The driver’s side door is riddled with bullet holes.
I cross the alley in three strides, ripping the passenger door open.
The front seat is empty. The driver is slumped over the center console, dead.
I look at the backseat. It is empty. But the floorboard is covered in shattered glass, and sitting amidst the debris is the unmistakable shape of a Glock 19.
I reach in and pick it up. The slide is forward, but the distinct smell of freshly burnt gunpowder lingers around the ejection port.
She fired it.
I look out the shattered rear window. A few feet away, lying in the rain, is a mercenary. He is clutching his hand, groaning in pain, a shattered tactical flashlight lying next to him.
She didn't just hide. She fought back.
I walk over to the wounded mercenary. He looks up at me, his eyes wide with terror as he recognizes the dark tactical gear and the blood streaming from my nose.
"Where did they take her?" I ask, my voice a harsh, unnatural rasp.
"I don't know," the man gasps, clutching his bleeding hand. "Vance took her in the transport. They left us here to secure the perimeter."
"What kind of transport?"
"A black armored van. No markings." He coughs, rain mixing with the blood on his face. "You're dead, Fixer. Arthur is going to gut you."
I raise the Glock 19—Gemma’s gun—and shoot him twice in the chest.
I turn my back on the body, reaching into my tactical vest with bloody fingers. I pull out the satellite phone. The screen is cracked from the explosion, but the device powers on.
I hit the speed dial for Ben.
He answers on the first ring. "Callum? I heard an explosion over the comms. Are you clear?"
"They took her," I say, my voice completely devoid of anything resembling humanity.
"I know," Ben replies, his tone tight, frantic. "I was monitoring the local police bands. They got reports of automatic gunfire in an alley near your position. I immediately pinged the GPS tracker in her jacket."
I stop walking. I stand in the freezing rain, the water washing the blood from my chin.
"Do you have a signal?" I ask.
"Yes. It’s moving fast. They’re heading west, out of the city." Ben’s keyboard clacks aggressively over the line. "Callum, they are heading toward a private airfield in Farnborough. The same one we flew into. Arthur Vance has a jet waiting. If they get her on that plane, she’s gone."
"They are not getting her on the plane."
"You don't have transport," Ben points out desperately. "The Mercedes is burned. You’re on foot in East London."
I look down the alley. Parked near the main road is the black Range Rover the mercenaries used to block the Mercedes. The engine is still idling.
"I have transport," I tell him.
"I’m sending the live tracking link to your phone," Ben says. "Callum... Arthur Vance travels with a literal army. If you hit that airfield, it’s going to be a massacre."
"Good."
I hang up the phone.
I walk over to the idling Range Rover. The driver’s side door is unlocked. I pull it open, climb into the heavy leather seat, and throw the vehicle into gear.
The GPS link from Ben pings on my phone. A small red dot is moving steadily along the M3 motorway, roughly twenty miles ahead of my current position.
I hit the accelerator. The heavy SUV surges forward, tearing out of the alley and onto the wet streets of London.
I push the vehicle to its absolute limit, weaving through the late-night traffic, ignoring red lights and intersections. The rain lashes against the windshield, the wipers struggling to clear the water fast enough.
My ribs ache from the concussive force of the C4. My ears are still ringing. But the physical pain is entirely irrelevant.
I replay the last three weeks in my mind.
I tried to be a ghost. I tried to walk away from the violence. I bought a house on the edge of the world, and I tried to pretend that I could offer her a life that didn't involve blood and concrete.
But Arthur Vance didn't just take the woman I love. He took the only shred of peace I have ever known.
I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white.
I am not going to negotiate. I am not going to sneak into the airfield.
I am going to tear Arthur Vance apart with my bare hands.
The red dot on the tracking map slows down as it approaches the perimeter of Farnborough Airport. They are passing through the private security gates.
I check the distance. I am ten minutes behind them.
I reach into the passenger seat and grab the canvas duffel bag I dragged out of the Mercedes before taking the Range Rover, pulling it onto my lap. I unzip it with one hand while steering with the other.
I pull out the spare magazines for the MP5, slotting them into the empty pouches on my chest rig. I check the chamber of the Glock. I pull the heavy combat knife from its sheath, ensuring the blade is clean, before sliding it back into place.
I am a weapon. And right now, I am pointed directly at Arthur Vance’s heart.
The heavy iron gates of the private airfield appear in the distance, illuminated by harsh halogen floodlights. Two armed guards are standing in the rain, checking the perimeter.
I don't slow down.
I brace myself against the steering wheel, press my foot to the floor, and drive the three-ton armored Range Rover directly through the steel gates.