3. Chapter 3 （Olivia）
My apartment looks like a crime scene. Actually, it is a crime scene, complete with police tape and evidence markers scattered across my floor like confetti. Detective Grant is asking me questions I barely hear, while forensics photographs my broken door and the blood smear on my fire escape.
But I can't stop staring at him.
Noah Harrington stands by my window, his broad frame silhouetted against the city lights. He hasn't said a word since his cryptic comment about Marcus Randall, but I can feel him watching me. Analyzing me. Probably judging how I'm handling all this.
I clutch my laptop closer. It's dented from connecting with that man's face, but still working. Thank god for solid engineering and hard heads.
"Ms. Blackwood?" Detective Grant's voice pulls me back. "Did you notice anyone following you before tonight?"
"Just the usual corporate goons." I force a smile I don't feel. "It's an occupational hazard."
"Three armed men breaking into your apartment is not an occupational hazard." Noah's voice is low, dangerous. It's the first thing he's said in over an hour, and something in his tone makes me want to argue purely on principle.
"I had it under control."
He turns then, and the look he gives me could freeze hell. "You were about to fight armed intruders with a bottle of wine."
"It worked, didn't it?"
"Ladies." Detective Grant interrupts our glaring contest. "Can we focus? Ms. Blackwood, given the circumstances, I strongly recommend you relocate temporarily. Do you have somewhere safe you can stay?"
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. Jackson.
Go with Noah. That's an order. No arguments.
I want to scream. To throw something. To tell them all that I don't need a babysitter, that I can handle myself. But the wine bottle that was my only weapon is now in an evidence bag, and my hands won't stop shaking, and there's blood on my laptop from where I hit that man, and?—
"Breathe." Noah's voice is closer now, softer. When did he move? "Four counts in, four counts out."
"Don't tell me how to breathe." But I follow his rhythm anyway, hating that it helps. Hating that he noticed I needed it.
"I have a secure location," he tells Detective Grant, not looking away from me. "Off-grid. Defensible."
"Good." Grant nods. "We'll keep uniformed officers here in case they come back, but..."
She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't have to. If these guys are who I think they are—who I know they are—a few uniformed cops won't stop them.
"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me how you know Marcus Randall." I meet Noah's gaze, refusing to back down. "You said his name like it was personal."
Something flickers in his eyes—pain? anger?—before his expression hardens again. "What I know about Randall is exactly why you need to come with me. Now."
"Right, because I should totally trust the mysterious stranger who's been stalking me?"
"I wasn't stalking you. I was?—"
"Lurking? Creeping? Following me without my knowledge or consent?"
His jaw tightens. "Protecting you."
"From what?" I step closer, my reporter instincts firing on all cylinders. "What aren't you telling me? How are you connected to Randall Industries? Why did those men seem more interested in you than me? Why?—"
"Enough." His voice cuts through my questions like a blade. "You want answers? Fine. But not here. Not now. This place isn't secure, and you're in more danger than you realize."
"Then start talking."
"Olivia." Detective Grant's use of my first name surprises me. "Go with him. Please. Let us process the scene and follow up on leads. You can continue your investigation from somewhere safer."
I look around my apartment—my home, my safe space, now violated and broken. The truth is, I don't want to stay here. Don't want to sleep knowing they could come back. Don't want to remember the sound of my window opening, the terror of realizing I wasn't alone.
But leaving with him? Trusting him?
My phone buzzes again. Cassandra this time:
Just heard what happened. Please tell me you're not being stubborn about protection. Don't make me worry more than I already do.
"Fine." The word tastes like surrender. "Let me pack a bag."
Noah nods once, all business again. "Five minutes. Pack light. Practical clothes only."
"Anything else?" I snap. "Would you like to pick out my outfits too?"
A muscle ticks in his jaw. "Four minutes, fifty seconds."
I turn away before he can see my expression, stomping to my bedroom like a teenager. It's childish, but it makes me feel better. Just a little.
Behind me, I hear Detective Grant say something in a low voice, and Noah's equally quiet response. They're talking about me, about the case, about things I should be part of.
This is exactly what I was afraid of. The moment I accept protection, I start losing control. Of my story. Of my life. Of everything.
But what choice do I have?
I throw clothes into my overnight bag with more force than necessary. Jeans. T-shirts. Running shoes. My hand hovers over a nice blouse—force of habit, I always dress professionally for interviews—but Noah's words echo in my head. Practical clothes only.
God, I hate this already.
My laptop goes into its case along with all my chargers and backup drives. Three years of investigative work, countless sources and leads, all pointing to something rotten at the heart of Randall Industries. I'm not leaving any of it behind.
"Two minutes," Noah calls from the living room.
"Stop counting!" I shout back, shoving underwear into a side pocket. A glance in my mirror shows exactly what I expect—wild hair, pale face, smudged mascara. I look like someone who just fought off home invaders with a wine bottle and a laptop.
Which, technically, I am.
My hands shake as I grab my toiletries bag. The adrenaline crash is hitting hard now, making everything seem slightly surreal. Did I really hit someone with my laptop? Did I really agree to go into hiding with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding?
"One minute."
I grab my phone charger and my emergency cash stash from behind the mirror. "You know, this whole drill sergeant routine isn't making me like you any better."
He appears in my doorway, filling it completely. "I'm not here to be liked."
"Mission accomplished." I zip up my bag and straighten, meeting his eyes. "I need to call Cassandra. Let her know I'm okay."
"No calls. No contact with anyone except Jackson, and only through secure channels."
"She's my best friend!"
"She's a liability." His voice is flat, brooking no argument. "Anyone you contact becomes a potential pressure point. A way to get to you."
The worst part is, he's right. I've seen it happen to sources before—the way corrupt organizations squeeze people through their loved ones. But that doesn't make it any easier to swallow.
"Thirty seconds."
I shoulder my bags, glaring at him. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
Something flickers in his eyes—not quite humor, but close. "If I were enjoying this, I'd have started counting milliseconds."
Despite everything, I almost smile. Almost.
"Ms. Blackwood." Detective Grant appears behind Noah. "We'll need a formal statement tomorrow. I can send someone to wherever you're?—"
"No," Noah cuts her off. "I'll bring her to the station when it's secure. No one knows her location. Not even you."
Grant's expression tightens, but she nods. She's been working this beat long enough to know how these things go. How quickly trust becomes a luxury you can't afford.
"Time's up." Noah takes my overnight bag before I can protest. "We leave through the back. Stay close. Don't stop for anything."
"My car?—"
"Is probably being watched. We're taking mine."
Of course we are. Because heaven forbid I maintain any shred of independence in this situation.
We move through the building like shadows, Noah checking corners and stairwells before letting me pass. It should make me feel safer, having someone so hyper-vigilant watching my back. Instead, it just reinforces how much danger I'm in.
His car is exactly what I'd expect—black, nondescript, probably armored. He stows my bags in the trunk while I slide into the passenger seat, noting the tinted windows and the fact that I can't see anything in the back seat through the mesh barrier.
"Where are we going?" I ask as he starts the engine.
"Somewhere safe."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting right now." He pulls out onto the street, his eyes constantly scanning. "The less you know, the better."
"Right." I pull out my laptop, balancing it on my knees. "Because keeping me in the dark worked out so well earlier."
"What are you doing?"
"Working. Just because I'm being kidnapped by a professional growler doesn't mean I'm abandoning my story."
"This isn't a joke, Olivia." The use of my first name startles me. "Those men tonight? They weren't trying to scare you. They weren't there to steal your research or warn you off. They were there to kill you."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with truth. I think about the weapons they carried, the clinical efficiency of their movements. He's right—they weren't there to play games.
"Then help me understand," I say quietly. "You know something about Randall. Something that made you hesitate when Jackson called. Something personal."
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. For a moment, I think he's going to shut me down again. But then:
"When we get where we're going," he says finally. "I'll tell you what I know. But you might wish I hadn't."
"When we get where we're going," he says finally. "I'll tell you what I know. But you might wish I hadn't."
The city lights fade behind us as we head north, streetlamps giving way to darkness broken only by our headlights and the occasional passing car. I try to work on my laptop, but the screen's glow hurts my eyes and the words keep blurring together.
"You should sleep," Noah says, his voice oddly gentle. "It's been a long night."
"I'm fine." But even as I say it, exhaustion hits me like a wave. The adrenaline is completely gone now, leaving me hollow and shaky. "How much longer?"
"Three hours, give or take."
I close my laptop, letting my head rest against the window. The glass is cool against my skin, and I can see our reflection ghosting over the darkness outside. Noah's profile is sharp, alert, his eyes constantly checking the mirrors.
That's when I notice it.
"The silver SUV," I say quietly. "Three cars back. It's been following us since we left the city."
Noah's expression doesn't change, but something in his posture shifts. "How long have you been watching it?"
"About twenty minutes. I thought I was being paranoid at first, but they're matching all our lane changes."
A grunt that might be approval. "Good catch. Most people wouldn't notice."
"Most people haven't spent the last three months learning counter-surveillance techniques from YouTube."
This time I'm sure I see a hint of a smile. "YouTube?"
"Hey, don't knock it. Those videos helped me spot the guys following me today. Well, the other guys following me. The ones who weren't you."
He doesn't respond, but his eyes are constantly checking the mirrors now. The SUV maintains its distance, not getting closer but not falling behind either. Professional.
"Hold on," Noah says suddenly, and turns off onto a narrow side road.
The SUV follows.
"There's a turnoff ahead," he tells me, voice tense. "When I say now, get down and stay down."
My heart pounds, but I nod. The road winds through dense trees, moonlight barely penetrating the canopy. The turnoff appears suddenly—a dirt road that looks barely wide enough for our car.
"Now!"
I duck down just as Noah cuts the wheel hard. The car fishtails on the loose gravel, my seatbelt digging into my shoulder. Behind us, I hear tires screeching.
Noah accelerates, the engine roaring as we bounce along the unpaved road. I want to look up, to see what's happening, but his hand on my shoulder keeps me down.
"Stay down," he orders. "Count to hundred."
I count in my head, trying to track our movement by the way the car sways and turns. Left, right, another right. The sound of pursuit fades, then disappears completely.
"Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... hundred." I start to sit up.
"Keep counting."
"But you said?—"
"Again."
I grit my teeth and start over, adding creative profanity in my head. When I finally reach hundred for the second time, the car has stopped.
"Clear," Noah says, and I sit up.
We're in some kind of clearing, the car concealed beneath low-hanging branches. No sign of the SUV. No sign of anyone.
"They're gone?" I hate how small my voice sounds.
"For now." Noah's still scanning the trees, one hand resting near his gun. "They'll be back. They always come back."
The way he says it—like he's speaking from experience—makes me shiver. "You've done this before."
"Yes."
"With another journalist?"
His silence is answer enough.
"What happened to them?" I ask, even though I'm not sure I want to know.
Noah starts the car again, easing us back onto what looks like a logging road. "You should try to sleep. We've still got an hour to go."
"That's not an answer."
"No." His voice is heavy with something that might be grief. "It's not."
I lean back in my seat, but sleep is the furthest thing from my mind now. The SUV's disappearance feels too neat, too convenient. Like they weren't really trying to catch us at all.
Like they just wanted to let us know they could.
"Noah?" I hate how vulnerable I sound, but I have to ask. "Are we going to make it to wherever we're going?"
He's quiet for so long I think he's not going to answer. Then, without taking his eyes off the road.
"We'll make it. I'm not losing another one."