Chapter 7 #3
On the camera feed, they watched Caine kneel at the garage entrance, working on the lock with tools Grant couldn’t quite make out on the grainy feed. Thirty seconds. Sixty. Then the door opened and she slipped inside like smoke.
“She’s in the building,” Morrison’s voice was calm, almost conversational. “All teams standby. Suspect is in the building, entering stairwell B from garage level. Moving up.”
Grant pulled Liza closer, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was it. After six months of hunting, after seven attempts on his life, after all the fear and running—it was finally ending.
They watched the stairwell camera as Caine climbed. Second floor. Third. She moved cautiously, checking each landing, weapon drawn and ready. A professional doing professional work.
“Fourth floor,” Morrison reported. “She’s moving toward the stairwell to five.”
The figure paused on the fourth-floor landing, and Grant held his breath. Was she sensing the trap? Had they given something away?
But then she continued climbing, and Grant released the breath he’d been holding.
“Fifth floor,” Morrison said. “She’s in your hallway. All teams, prepare to move on my signal.”
The hallway camera showed Caine moving toward the model unit with her weapon raised. She paused at the door, listening. Then she produced her lock picks and went to work.
Thirty seconds. The door opened. She slipped inside.
“She’s in the model unit,” Morrison said. “Teams, on my mark. Three…two…one…execute.”
The camera feed from the model unit showed Caine moving through the space, checking corners, clearing rooms. She entered the bedroom, saw the decoy positioned near the window, and Grant saw the moment she understood.
The exact moment she knew she’d been had.
She spun toward the door as FBI agents poured in from both directions—the hallway, the balcony, moving with practiced coordination.
“FBI! Drop your weapon!”
“On the ground! Now!”
The commands overlapped, urgent and commanding. Caine raised her weapon—not to surrender, but to fight.
Multiple shots fired. The sound came through the tablet speakers, tinny and distant but unmistakable.
Caine went down.
The radio exploded with chatter. “Suspect down! We have suspect down! Medical to fifth floor, model unit, now!”
Grant stared at the screen, watching agents swarm into the room, watching them kick Caine’s weapon away, watching them check for a pulse, call for the medics, begin first aid with efficient, practiced movements.
“She’s alive,” Morrison’s voice cut through the chaos. “Repeat, suspect is alive and in custody. Nonlethal wounds, shoulder and leg. She’s going to make it to stand trial.”
The words seemed to come from very far away. Grant felt like he was underwater, everything muffled and slow. It was over. After everything—after Detroit, after the car bomb and the poisoned coffee and the six months of looking over his shoulder—it was finally over.
“Grant?” Liza’s voice pulled him back. Her hands were on his face, making him look at her. “Grant, it’s over. We’re safe. It’s done.”
He pulled her into his arms and held on, held on while something in his chest finally unclenched, finally released the breath he’d been holding for half a year. She was warm and solid and real, and she was safe, and Caine was in custody, and they’d made it.
They’d actually made it.
“I’ve got you,” Liza whispered against his chest. “I’ve got you, and you’ve got me, and we’re both okay.”
The radio crackled. “All clear. Repeat, all clear. Suspect is in custody and being transported. You’re clear to come out.”
But Grant didn’t move. Not yet. For just a moment longer, he needed this—needed Liza in his arms, needed the solid walls around them, needed to feel his heart remember how to beat without fear driving every pulse.
When he finally pulled back, Liza’s eyes were wet. “We made it,” she said, wonder in her voice. “We actually made it.”
“Yeah.” He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth. “We did.”
The door opened and Wyatt appeared, his face split by a grin. “Blaze is going to be so mad he missed this. Come on. Morrison wants to debrief you, and then you’re both going to the hospital for checkout. Doctor’s orders.”
“Colt?” Liza asked.
“Yeah. He’s waiting at the hospital, ready to examine you both and probably lecture Grant about stress and responsible decision-making.” Wyatt’s grin widened. “He’s already texted me three times asking if you’re okay.”
They stood, muscles protesting after hours of sitting on concrete. Grant’s legs felt shaky, adrenaline finally draining away and leaving exhaustion in its wake. But Liza’s hand was in his, warm and solid, and they walked out of that windowless room together.
Into the hallway where agents were already breaking down their equipment. Into the elevator that carried them down to the lobby where Morrison waited with paperwork and questions. Into the night air that smelled like snow and pine and freedom.
And through it all, Grant held Liza’s hand and didn’t let go.
Because she was his future. His home. His reason for wanting to wake up tomorrow and the day after and all the days to come.
And finally—finally—they could start building that future without shadows dogging their steps.