CHAPTER 17 Maeve
The silence in the car is heavy, smelling strongly of the bitter, metallic retardant from the fire suppression foam.
I look down at my hands. The dark tactical fabric of my jacket is stained with white, chalky streaks where the foam is beginning to dry and flake off. My fingers are trembling, a fine, high-frequency vibration that I can't seem to stop, no matter how hard I press my hands into my thighs.
We failed.
I spent six hours stripping Leo’s code down to its absolute core. I memorized the execution sequence. I walked into a subterranean server room guarded by a cartel, and I failed to push a single dollar out of their accounts.
I turn my head, looking at Declan.
He is staring straight ahead, navigating the quiet, palm-lined streets of Brickell.
The neon lights of the city slide across his face, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw and the dark smear of plaster dust on his cheekbone.
The black compression shirt he’s wearing is damp, clinging to the heavy muscles of his chest and shoulders.
We survived. That is not a failure.
His words are still echoing in my head. He isn't angry with me. He isn't blaming me for the script stalling. But the lack of blame almost feels worse. It feels like he expected me to fail, and he is just relieved I didn't get shot in the process.
"I didn't mess up the code," I say suddenly, breaking the quiet of the cabin. My voice sounds defensive, rough from the chemical smoke in the hallway.
Declan doesn't look away from the road. "I didn't say you did."
"But you're thinking it. You're thinking I stripped out a vital component of the backdoor when I was trying to optimize the speed.
" I pull my knees up slightly, turning fully toward him.
"I didn't, Declan. The script was executing perfectly.
It hit the final firewall and it just...
hit a wall. Like the port was physically closed from the other side. "
He hits the blinker, turning onto the quiet street that leads to the Mandarin Oriental.
"If the port was closed from the other side," Declan says, his tone analytical, "it means they were monitoring the primary node. They watched the script bypass the outer security layers, and they manually severed the connection before the transfer could initiate."
I frown, my brain trying to process the logic. "But why would they do that? Why not just trigger the alarm the second we plugged in?"
"Because they wanted to see what the script was designed to do. They wanted to know if we were trying to steal the money, or if we were trying to destroy the ledger."
He pulls the car into the discreet subterranean entrance of the hotel. The valet is nowhere to be seen at this hour. Declan parks the car in the same secluded bay near the private elevator.
He kills the engine and finally turns his head to look at me.
"They were waiting for us, Maeve," he says quietly. "Evans warned them. They knew we needed the physical connection to the mainframe, and they used it to trap us in the sub-basement."
A cold weight settles in my stomach. "So they knew we were coming. They knew we were in the building."
"Yes."
"And you still walked me in there."
"I walked you in there because it was the only tactical option available to clear your name," Declan replies, his dark eyes entirely steady. "And because I knew that if the situation deteriorated, I could get you out."
I stare at him. The absolute arrogance of the statement is staggering. He walked into a trap set by a multi-national drug syndicate, fully aware that it might be a trap, simply because he believed his capacity for violence was greater than theirs.
And the terrifying part is, he was right.
I look away, grabbing the heavy waterproof casing containing the laptop from the floorboards. I push the passenger door open and step out into the humid garage.
We take the private elevator up to the penthouse in silence.
The doors slide open, revealing the massive, sterile living room. It looks exactly the same as we left it hours ago. The pristine white sofa, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay. It feels like a different universe compared to the decaying brick and foul water of the maintenance tunnel.
I drop the laptop casing onto the dining table.
"I need a shower," I mutter, pulling at the collar of the tactical jacket. The chemical foam is starting to itch against my skin.
"Go," Declan says, setting the duffel bag down near the door. "I will call Leo and have him analyze the failure logs from the laptop. We need to know exactly what the cartel saw before the connection was severed."
I don't argue. I walk down the hallway to the guest bathroom, shutting the door behind me and locking it.
I strip off the stiff, chemical-soaked tactical gear, leaving it in a pile on the marble floor. I step into the massive glass shower and turn the water on as hot as I can stand it.
I stand under the spray for twenty minutes. I scrub my skin until it turns pink, trying to wash away the smell of the sewer, the cordite, and the bitter fire retardant. I wash my hair twice.
But no matter how hard I scrub, I can't wash away the heavy, suffocating realization that we are completely out of options.
The ledger in Chicago is wiped, but Evans gave them my name. The hub in Miami is locked down, and they know Declan is the one helping me. We have no money. We have no leverage. We are just two people hiding in a borrowed penthouse, waiting for an army to find us.
I turn the water off. I wrap a thick, white hotel towel around my body and step out of the shower.
The bathroom mirror is fogged with steam. I wipe a circle away with my hand, looking at my reflection. The bruises on my neck are a stark, violent purple against my flushed skin.
I trace the marks with my fingertips.
I am not a pet. I am not a liability.
I drop my hand, pulling a clean black t-shirt and a pair of soft gray sweatpants from the stack of clothes Declan bought for me. I dress quickly, my damp hair soaking the back of the shirt.
I walk out of the bathroom and back into the living room.
The penthouse is quiet. The lights are dimmed.
Declan is sitting on the edge of the white sofa. He has a secure phone pressed to his ear, his voice a low, rapid murmur. He has taken off the tactical shirt. He is bare-chested, the muscles of his back tense as he listens to whoever is on the other end of the line.
The bandage on his left shoulder is completely ruined. It is soaked through with dark, fresh blood, the edges peeling away from his skin where the sweat and the humidity of the tunnel loosened the adhesive.
He ends the call, tossing the phone onto the coffee table.
He doesn't look up as I walk into the room. He just rests his elbows on his knees, his head bowed, his hands clasped loosely between his legs. He looks exhausted. It is the first time I have ever seen him look anything less than perfectly composed.
"What did Leo say?" I ask, stopping near the edge of the sofa.
Declan doesn't raise his head. "He confirmed your theory. The script didn't fail. The cartel's network administrators severed the physical port connection the second the script attempted to access the offshore routing numbers. They locked the blast doors manually."
"So they know we didn't get the money."
"They know."
I look at his shoulder. The blood is slowly tracking down his bicep, a stark red line against his pale skin.
"You're bleeding," I say quietly.
He glances at his shoulder, as if he had completely forgotten about the gunshot wound. "It tore when I pulled the maintenance grate open. It's fine."
"It isn't fine, Declan. It's bleeding everywhere."
I walk past him, heading into the kitchen. I find the medical kit he left on the counter earlier today. I grab it, along with a clean towel, and walk back into the living room.
I stop in front of him.
He looks up at me. His dark eyes are heavy, the obsidian color clouded with fatigue and something else. Something that looks dangerously close to defeat.
"Sit back," I instruct, opening the medical kit.
He doesn't argue. He leans back against the sofa cushions, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.
I step between his knees. The position is exactly the same as when I cleaned his shoulder in the safe house in Colorado, but the energy in the room is entirely different. In Colorado, I was terrified of him. I was trying to fix him so he could drive the car.
Now, I am standing between his knees because I can't stand the thought of him hurting.
I peel the ruined, bloody bandage off his shoulder. He doesn't flinch, but I feel the muscles in his thighs flex against the sides of my legs.
I take the clean towel and carefully wipe away the fresh blood. The graze is angry and inflamed, the edges of the torn skin red and irritated from the sweat and the chemical foam.
"This needs stitches," I murmur, my brow furrowing as I inspect the wound. "Or at least butterfly closures. The skin keeps pulling apart every time you move your arm."
"I don't have time for stitches," he replies, his voice a low rumble that vibrates directly against my stomach.
"You don't have a choice. If this gets infected, your arm is going to be useless."
I dig into the medical kit, finding a small packet of sterile butterfly bandages. I open them, my fingers trembling slightly.
"You did well tonight," Declan says suddenly.
I pause, the small white bandage hovering an inch above his skin. I look down at him.
"I panicked in the server room," I correct him, my voice tight. "I hid under a desk while you shot three people."
"You took cover when ordered," he counters, his dark eyes holding mine. "And when the tactical situation required a systemic override, you executed it perfectly under extreme duress. You got us out of that building, Maeve."