Chapter 24 – Lance
Twenty-Four
Pacing Won't Fix This
Lance
I couldn't stop pacing.
The penthouse's hardwood floors were going to have permanent wear marks from my boots at this rate, but I couldn't sit still. Not with Morgan's words echoing in my head like a fucking war drum.
"Tell him Charles is waiting. Tell him it's time to come home."
Amber's message. Delivered through my wife like a goddamn calling card.
Morgan was down the hall, finally sleeping after the medics had cleared her of any serious injuries. A few stitches for the cuts, pain meds for the bruises, but she'd be fine.
Physically.
Emotionally? That was another story.
The betrayal had gutted her. I could see it in her eyes, the way she kept replaying every conversation with Amber, looking for signs she'd missed. Questioning every moment of friendship that had apparently been a lie from the start.
My grandfather had planned this. From the beginning, before I’d ever given in to my feelings for Morgan, he’d been one step ahead, trying to drag me back home.
It had started nearly three years ago when he’d put funds in my trust fund to see if I’d take the bait. Had he always known where I was? For the last several months, I’d been carefully hiding. But had he known? Had we made a mistake somewhere?
Well, he knows now, so roll with it or someone is going to die.
The fact that he’d planted Amber in Morgan's life was what was most terrifying. We hadn’t even done a cursory look at her. Because Morgan hadn’t been the target. I'd let this happen. I'd been so focused on external threats that I'd missed the enemy living in our inner circle.
The worst part? I couldn't even kill the bitch for what she'd done. She was gone. Vanished like fucking smoke.
But she'd left her message crystal clear: My Grandfather was done playing games.
My phone buzzed for the tenth time in the past hour. Atticus again.
Atticus: Team meeting in an hour. We need to plan our next move.
I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the screen.
Gwen had a newborn. Atticus had a family to protect.
I knew what needed to be done.
The decision crystallized in my mind like ice forming on glass. Clean. Sharp. Final.
I pulled up my contacts and found the number I'd been avoiding for weeks.
Me: We need to talk. Just you and me.
The response came back immediately, like he'd been waiting.
Old Man: About time. The place at the pier. One hour. Come alone.
He used to take me there when I was a kid. Buy me ice-cream and tell me my father had been a great soldier. That one day I'd be just like him.
I moved through the penthouse quietly, gathering what I needed. My Glock went into the shoulder holster. Backup piece in the ankle holster. The knife Silas had given me was tucked against my spine. If this was going to be my last stand, I wasn't going down easy.
Then I did the most difficult thing I'd ever done in my life.
I put in the SOS call.
The old me would have gone in alone.
The old me who had no one.
Did I want Morgan or Gwen near any of this? Absolutely not. But they were part of the team.
My call to Atticus was brief. I told him what was happening and left instructions about what to tell Hector and Silas, and the team. I'd have a bit of a head start to let the old man think I was coming alone. But my family would be right behind me.
Then I grabbed my kit from storage in the foyer. I grabbed one of the sticky tracking tabs and peeled off one to stick on the heel of my foot. I had no doubt the old man would move me. He would drug me to do it. And I'd be searched.
But the place least likely to be searched...the bottom of the feet. Gwen could track me easily with this. Even if the old man took me overseas, it would be a little more difficult. But these trackers had been created by Matthias Weller at Blake Security, and they were trackable by satellite.
The cab dropped me three blocks from the pier.
Old habits. Always approach a meeting from an unexpected angle, always leave yourself an exit route. My grandfather's training had been thorough, even if I'd spent years trying to forget it.
The night air carried the familiar scent of salt in the air. Manhattan stretched behind me, glittering and oblivious to the family drama playing out in its shadows.
Pier 47 looked exactly like it had fifteen years ago. Same weathered planks, same rusty railings, same view of the Hudson River stretching into darkness. The only difference was the luxury yacht moored at the end, sleek, white, probably worth more than most people made in a lifetime.
Of course grandfather would make a statement. Subtlety had never been his strong suit.
I spotted Amber before she saw me, leaning against the railing like she was just enjoying the night air. She looked different now, harder, more focused. The bubbly friend Morgan had known was gone, replaced by the operative she'd always been.
"Hello, Lance."
I stepped into the light, hands visible, moving with the casual confidence that suggested I wasn't armed to the teeth. "Amber. Or should I call you Sophie?" She turned, and her smile was all predator. "I prefer Sophie, actually. Nephew," she said with a smirk.
I ignored her.
"Wasn't sure you'd come," she said, pushing off from the railing. "Thought you might ignore instructions and bring your little team."
"This is between family." I stopped just outside arm's reach, close enough to seem non-threatening, far enough to react if she tried something stupid. "What does the old man want?"
"You know what he wants." Her voice carried that cold edge I'd never heard when she was playing Morgan's friend. "He wants you back. He wants the prodigal grandson to stop playing house with civilians and remember who he really is."
"And if I refuse?"
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "He'll keep taking pieces of your new life until you comply. Starting with the pretty little wife."
The casual way she said it. Like Morgan was just another pawn on grandfather's chess board, made violence spark through my veins. My hands flexed, muscle memory itching for the familiar weight of weapons.
Easy. She wants you angry. Angry people make mistakes.
"Morgan's off limits," I said quietly. "We both know family law."
"Family law protects family members," she corrected. "Last I checked, you abandoned the family name ten years ago. Which makes her fair game."
"So what's the play here?" I asked, shifting my weight slightly, preparing for violence. "You drag me back to France? Force me to kiss the ring?"
"Nothing so dramatic." She stepped closer, and I could see the calculation in her eyes. "Just a conversation. Grandfather to grandson. The way it should have been years ago."
"I'm not a scared kid anymore," I said flatly.
"No," she agreed. "You're not.”
“My mother died trying to expose the old man.”
"According to who?" She shook her head. "You know nothing."
She doesn't know about the ring. She doesn't know what we found.
She moved faster than I expected, the tranquilizer dart hitting my neck before I could dodge. My hand went to the injection site automatically, but the damage was already done.
Shit.
The world tilted sideways. I managed to stay on my feet for a few more seconds, long enough to see her pull out a phone.
"I've got him," she said to whoever was on the other end. "Bring the boat around."
My knees hit the dock. Hard. The last thing I saw before everything went black was Amber's satisfied smile.
Morgan
"Where the hell is he?"
Fear and worry clawed at me, sharp and relentless, while my heart pounded so fiercely it felt like the sound echoed in the room.
Surely, they could all hear it, this frantic rhythm of dread.
I was pacing Atticus and Gwen's living room like a caged animal, my phone clutched in one hand, Alex hovering near the door with professional concern written all over his face.
Lance had been gone for hours. We knew he’d be taken. But we expected to be able to track him. But hours and nothing.
Hours since he'd called Atticus with the plan. Hours since the tracking device had shown him heading to Pier 47. hours since the signal had gone dark.
The bit in my stomach was reaching black hole proportions with worry growing it exponentially.
I was determined to tread a path in the hardwood floor when Gwen called from the dining room. “Tracker’s up!”
I ran to her. “Where is he?”
"The tracker came back online, and is moving fast." Gwen said from her position at the laptop, Ava sleeping peacefully in a bassinet beside her.
"He's heading east. Speed suggests open ocean.
But there is no way…" Her voice trailed for a moment. “Baby, can you come look at this? This can’t be right.”
Atticus went to her side, pausing to stroke a sleeping Ava’s cheek before peering over Gwen’s shoulder. He frowned and shook his head before staring at Hector. “Would your grandfather seriously take Lance to France via helicopter?”
Hector, at his semi-permanent spot by the windows, snorted. “Yes. He’s done it before. When he wanted to make sure he couldn’t be tracked. It’s expensive, and the logistics are fucked, but possible.” He shook his head. “He wanted to make sure we didn’t follow easily.”
A helicopter…To France. He was taking Lance to France over the Atlantic.
My hands clenched into fists. "Can we intercept?"
"No," Pierce said grimly. He and Gavin had arrived twenty minutes ago, both armed and ready for whatever came next. "We’ll have to go the old-fashioned way."
"Okay, fine. We get on a plane, we fly to France, and we bring him home. When do we leave?"
"It's not that simple," Gavin started.
"Actually, it is." I pulled up the photos on my phone, the ones Pierce had sent me weeks ago.
Security layouts of my grandfather-in-law's compound in Marseille.
Guard rotations. Weak points in the perimeter.
"You've been planning for this possibility since Lance came back. You have the intel. You have the team. And I’m not losing him again. "