Chapter 22
THE ESTATE LOOMED LIKE a damn fortress.
Callen crouched in the shadows across from the Harrington property, nestled in a strip of overgrown oak and palmetto brush just off the gated drive. He’d ditched the SUV several blocks back, moving in on foot, blending with the dark the way Wraith always had: silent, unseen, patient.
He didn’t need to get inside. He just needed a look to see how tight security was around the estate.
He cursed Tex for always being right about these things as he watched two guards patrol the drive, predictable in their pacing.
A third sat in the glass booth at the gate, face bathed in the pale glow from his phone screen.
The whole setup screamed money and paranoia.
But it was the house itself that told Callen what he needed to know—lights on in the office, a flicker of blue from a TV in the den, and the two figures seated at a late dinner behind high paned windows.
There was no doubt the senator was home, and there was no way Callen could get to him.
But that wouldn’t be for long. One thing he learned in the Rangers was always to have a Plan B, and Tex had come up with a good one.
Monday nights meant one thing for Roger Harrington—his weekly cigar and bourbon hour at The King’s Leaf, an old-school private lounge tucked into Savannah’s historic district.
Callen had verified it himself by having Blaze tap into past video feeds, watching the man leave the estate at exactly 8:47 p.m. under a slim security escort.
One driver. One personal aide. The senator didn’t want to put on a big show in front of his public, and Callen knew he would refuse to stay home, even with the New Horizons threat.
Of course, the threats weren’t against him exactly.
At least not the deadly ones. Those were against his daughter, the one he setup.
Callen shifted, checking the time on his burner. 7:56 p.m. He had less than an hour to get in place. He slipped out from the brush and made for the vehicle stashed a few streets back.
Once behind the wheel, he adjusted a ball cap over his eyes, tugged up the collar of his gray hoodie, and ran through the plan one more time.
No direct confrontation at the bar. He didn’t need a public scene. That wouldn’t be good for anyone, especially Meaghan.
He would wait until the senator stepped outside, use a diversion to separate him from his aide and guard, and then move fast, just two blocks over to where he would leave the SUV. Easy. He hoped.
He wouldn’t miss. Wraith didn’t miss once he set his sights on his target, and that’s exactly who he had to be to protect the woman he loved.
The King’s Leaf looked unassuming at first glance tucked into the brick-laced corner of the historic district, its black awning sagged slightly from the humid Georgia air.
A soft golden glow flickered from the inside, warm and deceptive, as if the place catered more to philosophers than power players.
But inside those walls, powerful men made deals over Cuban cigars and hundred-dollar pours.
It was exactly the kind of quiet haunt where Roger Harrington liked to flex his influence off-camera.
According to Tex, it was where the senator held many of his more private meetings.
Callen hid behind a nondescript sedan parked across the narrow cobbled street, ball cap pulled low, hoodie zipped to his collarbone, a disposable coffee cup pressed against his thigh more for show than warmth.
He’d been watching for forty minutes when the senator’s SUV had pulled in exactly on schedule—8:47 p.m.—just like Tex had said it would.
Security stayed close, but they didn’t follow him in.
The narrowness of the bar’s interior made it hard to secure with its low ceilings, tight booths, and a single corridor leading to the private humidor lounge in back.
There weren’t enough clear sightlines for a full security detail to stay inside without drawing attention or block exits, and the bouncers at the door didn’t care for armed guards taking up barstools.
Probably the reason most of Roger’s people had remained at home, out of sight and out of Callen’s way, leaving the senator looking like he had no fear.
That was Harrington’s habit. Maintain appearances.
No visible protection just so he could maintain the illusion of approachability.
It was also a flaw, and Tex had zeroed in on it within minutes, and tonight it would be Senator Roger Harrington’s fatal mistake.
Callen’s phone vibrated, drawing his attention. It was Tex who had hacked into the surrounding cameras to give Callen a second set of eyes.
East alley’s still clear. Back entrance has a coded lock—last four of the owner’s birthday. Talk about predictable. Snag him and get the hell out of here. And don’t get cocky, Wraith.
Callen smirked despite himself.
That afternoon, Tex had sent Callen the architectural blueprints for The King’s Leaf, a direct lift from the city permit records, hacked and delivered just after lunch.
The bar was built in the 1940s with poor renovations over the decades, which meant gaps in the infrastructure.
He also sent it with a voice note attached: “This place is a tactical joke. Single front door. Side fire exit. Humidor’s in the back with a single vent running above it you could use to eavesdrop if needed.
I’d suggest extraction point at the east alley, a blind angle from the main road.
Narrow enough for a grab, wide enough to squeeze an SUV.
You’ve got a three-minute window between when Harrington steps out and when his driver rounds the block for pickup. That’s your opening.”
Callen had studied the layout over and over, memorizing the stacked stone walls, the poorly placed security cameras, and the outdated lock mechanisms. It was the intel that made or broke a mission, and it was exactly what he needed to pull this off without a bloodbath.
He had a plan. The senator just didn’t know it yet, and wouldn’t until it was too late.
Luckily, his SUV fit right in with all the other vehicles, something that looked like it belonged. He had already backed it into the alley, engine cold but ready. Callen adjusted the earpiece tucked inside his collar and slipped out from behind the car he was hiding behind without a sound.
The alley was damp, smelled faintly of aged oil from delivery trucks and gardenia from a nearby florist. He crouched near the fire door, input the code, and heard the dull click of the old lock disengaging. Easy so far.
He didn’t enter right away, though.
Instead, he pressed his shoulder to the brick wall beside the door and listened, timing his approach to the rhythm inside.
Through the vent, he could hear Harrington’s familiar baritone, deeper now, slightly slurred with bourbon.
Talking about stocks and land deals. There was a mention of Florida that caught Callen’s ear, but it passed.
He let the conversation go on for another three minutes before checking his watch. 9:54.
The senator would wrap up in under five. It was his routine, and Callen loved people who stuck to a routine. Always heading home by ten.
Now or never.
With a deep breath, Callen slipped inside.
The hallway was dark, with one sconce flickering uselessly above an exit map.
His boots barely whispered against the tile.
He moved ghostlike, back in his element, heart a hammer behind his ribs but hands steady.
It had been years since he pulled a solo op like this, but muscle memory didn’t forget.
He turned the corner, and there he was.
Roger Harrington. Standing at the far end of the corridor, one hand adjusting the cuff of his blazer, the other tucking a half-finished cigar into a brushed aluminum tube.
Then he muttered something about forgetting his lighter as he patted his jacket pocket, oblivious to his surroundings.
The driver stood off to the side, scrolling on his phone, completely unaware of the senator heading his way.
Harrington sent his aide to have the guard fetch the car, and then headed for the back door.
Callen made his move, head down, posture loose, slipping a face mask in place.
Just as the senator stepped into the side alley, straightening his coat as if he had been sitting for hours instead of minutes, Callen struck.
The senator’s expression flickered when he saw Callen, but not from recognition. Not yet.
“Senator,” Callen said evenly.
Roger stiffened. “I don’t take meetings here. Who the hell are you?”
Callen didn’t answer as he grabbed him, a firm grip, one hand pinning the senator’s wrist, the other locking across his chest as he shoved him the rest of the way out the door and steered him toward the waiting SUV.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Callen shoved him at the waiting door. “No time for questions.”
The senator thrashed but couldn’t break free. He was older, softer, and startled.
“Keep your damn voice down, or this goes bad for both of us real quick,” Callen growled.
The senator fell silent, struggling more with indignation than fear. Callen popped the SUV door, shoving him inside the passenger’s side of the vehicle, and slammed it shut, before jumping into the driver’s seat. They peeled away from the curb seconds later.
“You’ll regret this,” Roger barked, still twisted awkwardly in the seat.
Callen said nothing. Not yet.
They passed the city limits before he turned off the road into a dense copse of trees. Only then did he finally kill the lights and throw the SUV into park.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached up and peeled the latex half-mask from his face, followed by the cap and hoodie.
Recognition hit the senator like a gut punch. “You,” he breathed.
“Me,” Callen said. “The man you sent to protect your daughter from a threat. You just didn’t tell me you were the threat.”
“You’ve lost your goddamn mind, McHollister. Do you have any idea what this stunt will cost you?”
Callen didn’t flinch. “The only thing I care about is Meaghan. And someone tried to kill her. Not capture her to use against you. No. Kill.”
Roger stiffened. “That’s why I told you to bring her to me in D.C.”
“But you’re not in D.C., are you?” Callen’s tone sharpened.
“Then maybe you should’ve told New Horizons.
Because they’ve got mercs trailing us, armed to the teeth, and someone’s throwing around a lot of money to make sure your daughter doesn’t live long enough to talk, and the funny thing is she doesn’t even know what she’d say. ”
Roger’s silence was telling.
Callen leaned closer, voice quiet but venom-laced. “You made this personal when you dragged me into it. So, you’re gonna start talking. What the hell did you do?”
“I didn’t—” Roger faltered. “New Horizons was never supposed to get messy. It was just land acquisitions. Permits. The kind of things everyone else in Washington does.”
“You used your daughter’s name, Senator,” Callen snapped. “The properties, the LLCs, the filings. All of it’s in her name. Not yours.”
Roger’s face paled.
Callen saw it the moment confusion slipped into dread. “You didn’t know?”
“I—no, that’s impossible. The legal team was supposed to file everything under the blind trust. It shouldn’t trace back—”
“But it does,” Callen ground the words out. “And now she’s in the crosshairs. Not for leverage. For revenge.”
Roger’s hands trembled as he reached for the dashboard, gripping it like it could anchor him. “God help me,” he whispered.
Callen stared at the man, the memory of that day in the senator’s office surfacing.
“She’s meant for more than blood and scars, Callen. Let her go.”
“I’m giving you a way out with the Rangers. You’re good at running into danger. Do that. Just leave her be.”
He had. And now look where that got them.
“You’re gonna fix this,” Callen said coldly. “You’re going to tell me everything New Horizons is doing. Who’s behind it? Who wants her dead? And you’re going to do it now.”
Roger swallowed hard. “And if I don’t?”
Callen met his gaze without blinking. “Then I’ll burn it all down myself with you right in the center.”
The words still echoed in the air when a sharp double-honk cracked through the quiet.
Tires crunched over the gravel drive as a dusty black SUV barreled into view from the end of the narrow road.
The headlights swept over the line of trees, momentarily blinding him before the vehicle jerked to a stop ten feet away.
Callen’s posture snapped rigid as he turned in his seat, worried Harrington’s men had found them.
His pulse pounded as the front doors flew open and Gage stumbled out first—bloodied, favoring his left side, the shape of a fresh bruise curling along his cheekbone. He staggered forward, face grim, his shirt torn across the shoulder and smeared with dirt.
Elvis followed, slower, limping hard on one leg. A thin cut trickled from his temple down into his collar, and he clutched one arm against his ribs as if something inside might be broken. But his eyes were sharp, wild, burning as he scanned the alley—
And then locked on Callen.
Callen didn’t waste a breath on questions.
He slid out of his vehicle and stepped forward, his gaze flicking over both men as the back door of the SUV remained shut. And then he saw the bullet holes riddling the vehicle and his heart sank.
“Where is she?” he demanded, voice low and fierce. “Where’s Meaghan?”
Neither of them answered right away.
And then Elvis exhaled a shaky breath. “They took her.”