Chapter 3
THREE
BANKS
I know exactly who she is the second her coffee explodes across my chest. Anniston Wells.
The whistleblower. The woman whose file is still open on my tablet back at the safe house.
The assignment Halo Protective Group slipped me under the table this morning with a fat retainer and a single line of instructions: Keep her alive.
Don’t let her know you’re on the payroll until it’s necessary.
I like this anyway.
I like the way she’s rambling at warp speed, cheeks flushed pink, blonde hair sticking to her forehead from the morning humidity.
I like how she dabs at my shirt like she’s trying to erase the last thirty seconds of her life.
I like that she has no idea the man she just baptized in oat milk is here to stand between her and whatever shadow is hunting her.
She’s cute in a way that should not hit me this hard.
Bright. Chaotic. The kind of light that makes the gray zones I live in feel a little less dark.
We walk side by side down the wide plaza sidewalk, her shorter legs working twice as fast to keep up with mine.
Sunlight bounces off the glass towers around us.
Tourists snap photos. Delivery bikes weave through traffic.
Normal city noise. But my eyes are cataloging everything: the black SUV idling too long at the curb two blocks back, the guy in the gray hoodie who has matched our pace for the last ninety seconds, the way Anniston keeps glancing over her shoulder even while she’s telling me about spilling soup on a federal judge.
“You’re laughing at me inside your head,” she says, poking my arm with one finger. “Admit it. You’re thinking this is the most unprofessional first impression in the history of first impressions.”
“I’m thinking you talk faster than most people type,” I answer. My voice stays even, but the corner of my mouth lifts. She notices. Her eyes light up like I just handed her a winning lottery ticket.
She has a pretty smile.
The boutique is fifty yards ahead, a sleek storefront tucked between a high-end watch dealer and a private bank.
I scan the entrance: glass doors, security cameras angled down, one bored employee visible through the window folding silk scarves.
Clean sight lines. Good exit options. My hand brushes the small of her back as we step off the curb, guiding her around a puddle.
She doesn’t pull away. Instead she leans into it for half a second, like the touch is the most natural thing in the world.
We reach the door. I pull it open for her. She flashes me a grin that feels like sunlight on bare skin.
“After you, coffee victim,” she says, stepping inside.
The attack comes before the door even swings shut behind us.
A man in a black ball cap and sunglasses bursts from the side alley that runs alongside the boutique. He’s on her in three strides, knife already out, blade catching the light. No warning shout. No hesitation. Nothing.
Anniston screams.
I move.
My left hand snaps out, catches her shoulder, and yanks her behind me so hard her back hits the glass display case.
Scarves tumble. The employee shrieks. I step into the attacker’s path, forearm blocking the downward knife strike.
The blade skims my sleeve, slicing fabric but missing skin.
I drive my elbow into his throat. Cartilage crunches. He staggers.
Fuck, he recovers fast. He’s definitely trained.
He swings again, low this time, aiming for my ribs.
I pivot, catch his wrist, and twist until the knife clatters to the marble floor.
My boot comes down on his instep. He grunts.
I follow with a knee to the solar plexus that folds him in half.
He crashes into a rack of designer jackets, metal clanging like gunfire.
Anniston’s breathing hard behind me. “Banks, what the hell?”
The attacker lunges up one more time, wild now, grabbing for her ankle through the fallen clothes.
I stomp down on his forearm. The bone snaps and he howls.
I drop, pin him with my knee in his spine, and zip-tie his wrists with the restraints I keep in my back pocket for exactly this reason.
His cap falls off. Young face. Scar across the left eyebrow.
I pat him down fast: burner phone, two extra magazines, no wallet. Hired help.
Sirens wail in the distance. Halo City PD response time is fast when the rich feel threatened.
I stand, and turn to Anniston.
She’s pressed against the wall, eyes huge, hands over her mouth. Her bag is clutched to her chest like a life raft. The cute, rambling woman from the sidewalk is gone. In her place is someone who looks like the ground just opened up beneath her feet.
I step close, keeping my voice low and steady. “Anniston. Look at me.”
She does. Her gaze locks on mine, wide and disbelieving.
“I was hired to protect you,” I say. “Halo Protective Group. This morning. You were never supposed to know like this, but that just changed.”
Her lips part. No sound comes out for a full three seconds. Then, “You what?”
The employee is already on the phone, probably with her manager. I ignore her. I grab Anniston’s hand, pull her toward the back exit I spotted when we walked in. “We’re not waiting for the cops. They’ll take statements for an hour and you’ll be a sitting target. Move.”
She stumbles after me, heels clicking fast on the tile.
“Banks. Banks. You can’t just drop that on me and then drag me out the back door like we’re in some spy movie.
I don’t even know you. I spilled coffee on you ten minutes ago.
Private security? For me? Why? Who sent you?
Is this about the files? The pipeline? Oh my God, that man had a knife.
He tried to stab me. He tried to stab me and you just, you just broke his arm like it was a toothpick. ”
We push through the service door into the alley.
Cool air hits us. I keep her close to the wall, my body shielding hers as I scan rooftops and parked cars.
The black SUV from earlier is creeping past the mouth of the alley.
I shove her behind a dumpster, pull my pistol, and fire two suppressed rounds into the front tire.
Rubber explodes. The SUV swerves, slams into a parked delivery van. Horns blare. People scatter.
Anniston squeaks. “You have a gun. Of course you have a gun.”
I holster it, and grab her hand again. “Your place. Now. You grab clothes, essentials, whatever you need for a few days. Then we disappear.”
She doesn’t argue. She runs with me, breathing hard, her fingers tight around mine. We cut through two more alleys, emerge onto a side street, and hail a cab with my free hand. I give the driver her address. She rattles it off too, voice shaking but clear.
Fifteen minutes later we’re in her apartment, a small but bright one-bedroom on the fifteenth floor with a view of the river.
She moves like a whirlwind now, yanking open drawers, shoving leggings, hoodies, underwear, and a toothbrush into a duffel.
I stand by the window, blinds half-closed, watching the street below.
Two men in dark jackets are already loitering near the building entrance. Not subtle.
“Hurry,” I tell her.
She zips the bag, slings it over her shoulder, and stops in front of me. Her eyes are still stunned, but there’s a fire in them now. “You’re really here to protect me? This whole time. It was a mission.”
I meet her gaze. “It started as a mission. The part where I liked walking with you, listening to you talk about soup disasters? That was real.”
She blinks hard, then nods once, like she’s filing that away for later. “Okay. Fine. Later. Right now we run?”
We run.
I get her out through the service elevator, down to the underground parking garage. My rented black truck is waiting two levels down. I load her bag, buckle her in, and peel out onto the service road. In the rearview I see the two men sprinting toward a sedan.
I take the next corner hard, tires squealing. Anniston grips the door handle, but she doesn’t scream. She just looks at me, cheeks still pink, hair a mess, and says, “So where exactly are we going, Banks Hawthorne?”
“Somewhere safe,” I answer, eyes on the road, already mapping the route out of Halo City. “Somewhere they won’t find us tonight. And tomorrow we start figuring out who wants you dead and why they’re willing to send knives into broad daylight to make it happen.”
She settles back against the seat, exhales a shaky breath, and for the first time since the attack her voice goes soft again. “You saved my life in under thirty seconds. I think I owe you more than a new shirt.”
I glance over. She’s watching me with those big eyes, half terrified, half something warmer. I like it more than I should.
“You owe me nothing,” I say. “But you’re going to let me keep you alive. Deal?”
She smiles, small and shaky but real. “Deal.”
I hit the highway ramp, city lights shrinking in the mirror, and feel the mission shift under my feet. Anniston Wells is no longer just an assignment.
She’s mine to protect.
And I’m not letting them touch her again.