Chapter 8 Pauline #2
The inside was worse than the outside. Water damage on the walls. Debris covering the floor. The smell of mold and something chemical that made my eyes water and my throat burn.
I followed the hallway to the room my source had specified. Third door on the left. Knocked twice, paused, knocked three times more.
The door opened.
The man on the other side was not my source.
He was tall and broad, with a shaved head and a scar that ran from his eyebrow to his jaw. His eyes were flat and cold, the eyes of someone who had done terrible things and felt nothing about them.
Behind him, two more men emerged from the shadows, their postures tense, tattoos crawling up their necks.
“You the reporter?” the first man asked. His voice was like gravel.
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. “I’m looking for Razor. He said he’d meet me here.”
Razor couldn’t make it.” The man smiled, and it was the worst smile I’d ever seen. “But he told us all about you. Little reporter girl, asking questions. Digging into things that don’t concern you.”
I took a step backward. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“No misunderstanding.” He moved toward me, and the other two followed, spreading out to block my escape routes. “You’ve been making problems for some very important people. They wanted us to explain why that needs to stop.”
My mind raced through options. The hallway behind me. The door at the end. The window I had passed, boarded up but maybe loose enough to break through.
None of them were good. None of them would work fast enough.
“I’m just doing my job,” I said, still backing up. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Should have thought about that before you started asking questions.”
He lunged.
I turned to run, but the hallway was too narrow and I was too slow.
One of the other men had circled around, appearing in front of me like a nightmare, and then hands were grabbing me—rough, bruising, yanking me backward.
I opened my mouth to scream but a palm clamped over my lips before any sound could escape.
Panic flooded my system—pure, animal panic, the kind that bypasses thought and goes straight to instinct. I struggled, kicked, tried to bite the hand covering my mouth. The grip only tightened. Someone laughed—a low, ugly sound that turned my blood to ice.
“Feisty,” the scarred man said. “I like that.”
His hand tightened on my arm, fingers digging into flesh, and I could smell cigarettes and something sour on his breath as he leaned closer.
The other two men were circling now, closing in, and I could see in their eyes exactly what they were planning and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
Please, I thought. Please, someone—
And then I heard it.
Sirens. Distant at first, then closer, the wail of them cutting through the night like a knife. The men froze. Exchanged glances. The scarred one’s grip loosened just slightly, his attention splitting between me and the sound growing louder outside.
“The hell, she brought the cops—” one of them started.
The door exploded inward.
Wood splintered. Hinges screamed. The sound was deafening in the narrow hallway, and I flinched so hard I nearly fell. Through the dust and debris, figures poured through—dark suits, controlled movements, the kind that spoke of training and practice and violence held on a very short leash.
Jack’s bodyguards. Two of them. Three. They moved like water, like shadows, flowing around the gang members before anyone could react.
And then Jack was there.
He stepped over the wreckage, his eyes locked on the scarred man with an intensity that made the air go cold.
The sirens were screaming now. Closer. Red and blue lights starting to flash through the boarded windows. Chaos erupted around us—shouts, scuffling, the sounds of bodies hitting walls as the bodyguards subdued the gang members.
I was shoved forward brutally as the men scrambled for escape with the sound of the siren.
I felt solid arms around me. Familiar hands were on my face before I could speak. Cupping my cheeks, tilting my head, his eyes scanning me for damage with an urgency that made my throat close up.
The sirens were still wailing outside. Footsteps thundered in the hallway—police, finally, filling the building with shouts and chaos.
“Are you hurt?” His voice cracked on the words. “Pauline. Look at me. Are you hurt?”
My voice had abandoned me somewhere between the panic and the relief. I just shook my head, trembling.
His thumb brushed my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn’t known was falling.
“We’re leaving,” he said. Not to me—to his men, who had the three attackers subdued on the floor, groaning and bleeding. “Let the cops handle it,”
He guided me out of the building with his arm around my shoulders.
My legs felt weak. My whole body felt weak, like someone had removed my bones and replaced them with water.
His car was parked outside—sleek and black.
He opened the passenger door and helped me inside, his movements gentle.
He got in the driver’s side. Sat there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, not moving.
Then he turned to me, and the fury broke through.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
I flinched. I couldn’t help it. His voice was loud in the enclosed space, sharp with something that sounded like fear wearing the mask of anger.
“Do you have any idea what could have happened?” He was shaking. “If I hadn’t followed you—if I hadn’t guessed you were about to do something stupid, those men would have—” He stopped.
His jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jumping. “Is your career worth your life, Pauline? Is a story worth dying for?”
My eyes burned. My throat closed up. I opened my mouth to respond—to defend myself, to explain, to tell him he had no right to lecture me about anything—but what came out instead was a sound I didn’t recognize. A sob. Small and broken and completely beyond my control.
Jack’s face changed. The anger drained out of him like water from a broken glass.
He reached for me, his hand hovering in the space between us like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch me.
“Pauline.” His voice was soft now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I was scared. I was so scared. I saw them grab you and I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I thought I was going to lose you. Again.”
The word again hit me somewhere deep, somewhere I had locked away years ago.
“Just take me home,” I whispered. “Please.”
He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes searching my face.
“Take me home!” I said louder this time, my tone harsh.
He didn’t respond. He just turned back to the road.
The drive was silent. I stared out the window at the city lights blurring past.
He had come for me.
Why?
The question pounded in my head like a heartbeat. What do you want from me?
We reached my apartment building. Jack pulled to the curb and put the car in park.
I should thank him. I knew I should thank him. He had saved my life tonight, whatever else was between us.
Instead, I got out of the car without speaking.
I walked to my door without looking back. Ignoring his gaze which I felt with every step I took.
I let myself inside and closed the door behind me, leaning against it, breathing hard.
After a long moment, I heard the sound of his car door. The engine starting, then fading as he drove away.
Then I sat on the floor of my bathroom, wrapped in a towel, and cried.
Not because I was scared. But because I realized anger would no longer protect me from Jack Specter.
He’d breached those walls and let himself in.