Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Lyra
My pulse hammers in my throat, a relentless drumbeat that hasn’t stopped since the hooded man’s fingers clawed at my locket. The chain seemed to sear my skin like a curse come alive.
Every step toward my apartment drags like wading through quicksand, and the September air slashes my lungs with its icy claws.
I’m shaking—hands, knees, soul—adrenaline curdling into dread that tastes like ash on my tongue.
Dealing with the attacker was bad enough.
But Stryker also haunts me.
Hawkeye Security.
Good God. Anyone but them.
And if Stryker is any indication, Hawkeye Security is every bit as dangerous as my father taught me.
My rescuer’s dark eyes see too much. And he has an awful trait that terrifies me. He refuses to let go of something once it’s snagged his interest.
Makes for a great investigator.
Terrifying if you’re the one caught in his crosshairs.
As I hurry, I scan every shadow, every face—a jogger, a dog walker, the woman opening the flower shop.
Am I being watched? Followed?
The gun is heavy against my hip, urging me to get home to my space, my fortress. I need to regroup, plan my next alias, my next city.
But when I reach the door to my third-floor walk-up in the unassuming Wash Park building—chosen for its anonymity, its lack of cameras, fire escape out my back window—I know someone has been in my apartment.
There’s a scratch on the doorknob that wasn’t there earlier. As if someone used a pick.
My heart slamming, I pull out my Glock.
After I thumb the safety off, I hold my gun low and ready as I open the door and nudge it open with my foot, slowly and silently.
Dear God.
Chaos greets me.
But the invasion instantly sharpens my senses. There’s a faint scent of putrid sweat lingering the air, and the creak of floorboards seems to screech under my running shoes.
Leading with my gun, I sweep the living room.
My minimalist haven—carefully curated to be forgettable, functional, with clean lines and zero personal touches—has been gutted.
The sofa cushions are slashed open, foam spilling like entrails onto the hardwood floor.
My small bookshelf has been toppled, and paperbacks are splayed like broken wings. They’re thrillers and design books, bought at the thrift store, and nothing about them screams “thief’s daughter.”
My laptop’s gone, but that’s no loss; it’s a dummy that I wipe clean daily.
I move toward the kitchenette to clear it.
Drawers have been yanked out, contents dumped in glittering piles: silverware tangled with receipts I should’ve burned, a shattered mug that once held my morning chai.
The fridge door hangs ajar, a carton of oat milk pooling on the tile. Even the potted succulent on the windowsill has been dumped over, its soil scattered like ashes.
Gun still leading, I edge toward the bathroom.
The mirror is shattered, with shards glinting like accusations on the floor.
I pause, scanning for movement, but it’s empty.
Then I move to the bedroom, easing through the open door. The mattress is flipped. The closet has been ransacked, leaving my clothes in heaps. I check every corner, every shadow. No one’s here.
Yet the air feels thick, watched, but my sweep is done. I reholster my gun, the weight of it settling against my hip.
Only then does the violation hit me. Like a punch to the gut. This wasn’t a burglary. It was a search. Methodical. Desperate. They tore through my life, layer by layer, hunting for what? The locket? The piece of vellum hidden inside?
My breath comes shallow, rage bubbling under the fear. This was my space. My illusion of safety. Now it’s stripped bare, exposed, just like me.
I move back toward the living room.
Then there’s a noise. Faint. Nothing more than a scuff from the living room.
Heart in my throat, I pull my gun out again, holding it in a two-handed grip. A tall, broad shadow shifts.
“Freeze!” My voice is steel, no tremor. I’ve practiced this.
The shadow steps into the light, hands raised casually, like he’s humoring me.
Stryker.
Goddamn him.
His dark eyes lock on mine, unflinching, even with the barrel pointed at his chest. He shows no fear. Just coiled calm, like he’s the one in control.
“What the hell?” I demand.
“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice is commanding, deep enough to vibrate through me.
I shouldn’t be here?
“This place isn’t safe.”
You’re the Patron Saint of the Fucking Obvious, Stryker.
I don’t lower the gun. “Why are you following me?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just scans the wreckage with a professional eye, taking in the destruction.
“Door was open, so I let myself in.” His gaze flicks to the gun, then back to my face, a hint of amusement in his unblinking eyes. “You can put that down, Allie. I’m not the enemy.”
He is. More than he can know.
After all, he’s with Hawkeye.
The word screams in my head. Dad’s stories flood back—the Hollingsworth heist, where he snatched the priceless jewels from under their noses. They’ve still never been recovered.
The loss humiliated them, costing Hawkeye millions of dollars in canceled contracts. Or so my dad claimed.
I mask my apprehension, all my nerves, behind a scowl as I force my voice to remain steady. “I’ve told you I don’t need your help.”
He ignores me.
Instead, he closes the door and locks it—not that that makes things safer. Then he crouches to pick up a torn photograph that’s half buried under scattered books.
It’s a picture of one of my many childhood homes—a rambling Victorian in upstate New York. That’s where my dad taught me to pick locks, calling it a “magic trick.”
The image is ripped down the middle in a deliberate taunt, making my stomach twist.
“We both know this wasn’t random.” Stryker pushes to a standing position, the photo dangling from his fingers like evidence.
“It’s just a picture.” My words are a lie. It’s a cherished memory, of the idyllic time before we lost my mom. Before I became a child accomplice to my father’s schemes.
Stryker shakes his head, that half smile tugging at his lips—charming, infuriating. “You’re good at pretending, I’ll give you that.”
After setting down the image, he reaches into his pocket—slow, telegraphing the move so I don’t shoot—and pulls out another matte-black card, identical to the first. Hawkeye Security, with a number etched in silver.
He sets it on the counter, deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Call me when you realize you’re in too deep. ”
The challenge in his gaze hits me low, a spark that races through my veins, turning my pulse into a frantic, out of control thing.
Stryker is too close again, his clean, masculine scent cutting through the chaos, his presence dominating the room without effort.
For the first time, a man is unfazed by my defiance. His reaction to me stirs something dangerous in me—attraction wrapped in warning, like submitting to him would be surrender and salvation all at once.
But trust Hawkeye? Let him know who I am?
No. That would be madness.
I need to keep my walls up and my secrets buried.
“You can leave now.” My voice is low, my gun still trained.
He nods once, respectfully.
He remains where he is for a few moments without retreating. Then he turns, strides to the door, and vanishes, the door closing with a soft click that seems to echo loudly behind him.
After safely tucking my gun away, I turn the lock and sag against the wall.
The adrenaline crash hits me hard.
What happened here is a violation of my space. And the taunt of that photo confirms that the hunt is on.
My chest aches from the emotional wreckage that is every bit as awful as the physical destruction.
I pick up the ripped photo Stryker had been holding and shove the remains into my pocket.
First things first: the safe.
My minimalist fortress has one true secret—a false panel behind the bedroom baseboard, disguised as part of the wall.
I pry it open with trembling fingers, revealing the small fireproof box.
Inside, there’s a round ceramic fob with markings etched in it. No matter how many hours I’ve stared at it, they make no sense to me.
There’s a knock at the door—sharp and insistent.
Instantly I shove the box back in its place, replace the baseboard, and palm my gun before creeping into the living room to peek through the peephole. Stryker.
Again.
What the hell?
The man is more annoying than the headache he’s giving me.
I tell myself I shouldn’t open the door. But his persistence, that training-driven resolve—he sees me as a target, clueless about my past, but he’s right about the danger.
“It’ll take me less than fifteen seconds to get inside, Allie.”
I close my eyes. The man is insufferable.
“I’m coming in, one way or another.”
There’s no reason not to believe him. He’s probably every bit as adept at locks as I am. And this door is not the strongest on the planet. Probably take him one good shoulder-shove to break it down.
Against every instinct, I holster my gun then release the lock.
He doesn’t wait for an invite. Instead, he pushes in.
Quickly he scans my surroundings again. Then he strides to the window to nudge the blinds aside. “You’ve got company.” Though his tone is calm, it’s edged with urgency.
My heart racing, I move to stand next to him.
Outside, near a lamppost across the street, is my attacker from the park, massive and hooded, conferring with another man. He is dressed sharper, in a suit, making me think he’s the brains to the brawn.
They’re watching my building. Waiting.
Damn it to hell and back. The hunt isn’t over. Instead, the danger is closing in.
“We need to move.” Stryker’s voice is deadly calm.
I blink. “We?”