CHAPTER 25
Gemma
Forty-five minutes is a very long time to sit in the back of a parked car in the rain.
The rain is coming down harder now, drumming a heavy, relentless rhythm against the roof of the SUV.
The dark alleyway is completely empty, illuminated only by the faint, orange glow of a distant streetlamp.
The driver is sitting perfectly still in the front seat, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, his eyes scanning the mirrors.
I pull the heavy winter coat tighter around my shoulders, shivering despite the heat blasting from the vents.
My left hand drops to the deep inside pocket of the coat. My fingers brush against the cold, textured grip of the Glock 19.
If I do not return in forty-five minutes, he has orders to take you to a safe house in Mayfair.
I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting the familiar metallic tang of copper. I am not going to Mayfair. If the clock hits forty-five minutes and Callum isn't back, I am going to put the gun to the back of this driver’s head and force him to take me into that shipping yard.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, checking the encrypted messaging app Ben set up for us.
Nothing. No updates. No pings from the dark web node.
The silence is agonizing.
"Miss," the driver says suddenly. His voice is low, heavily accented, and entirely devoid of the calm professionalism he displayed during the drive from the airport.
I look up. "What is it?"
He doesn't answer. He is staring at the rearview mirror.
I twist around in the seat, looking out the back window.
At the end of the narrow alleyway, blocking our only exit to the main street, is a black Range Rover. It doesn't have its headlights on. It is just sitting there, a massive, dark shadow in the rain.
"Start the car," I say, my heart kicking into a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"The alley is a dead end," the driver replies, his hands tightening on the wheel. "If we reverse, we ram them. They have the weight advantage. They’ll pin us against the brick walls."
"Then we drive forward." I turn back around, looking out the windshield. The alley ends in a chain-link fence, overgrown with weeds and trash. "Ram the fence. Get us out onto the cross street."
The driver reaches down, shifting the SUV into drive.
Before his foot can hit the accelerator, the dark alley lights up.
Two men step out from the shadows of the brick building directly in front of us. They are wearing dark rain gear and heavy tactical vests. They don't shout warnings. They don't tell us to get out of the car.
They raise their rifles and open fire.
The sound is deafening, a rapid, concussive roar that vibrates through the entire chassis of the Mercedes. The windshield shatters instantly, spiderwebbing into a million opaque cracks before collapsing inward under the concentrated barrage of bullets.
"Get down!" the driver yells, throwing himself sideways across the center console.
I dive toward the floorboard of the backseat, curling my body into a tight ball, pressing my hands over my ears. The air inside the cabin fills with the sharp smell of gunpowder and pulverized glass.
The heavy leather seats absorb most of the rounds, but the sheer volume of fire is terrifying. The metal doors ring with the impact of the bullets.
Then, the firing stops.
The silence that follows is thick and ringing. My ears are screaming.
I stay curled on the floorboard, my chest heaving. I wait for the driver to say something. I wait for him to put the car in reverse or grab his weapon.
"Hey," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Are you okay?"
He doesn't answer.
I slowly raise my head, peering over the edge of the backseat.
The driver is slumped over the center console. His dark suit is torn, the fabric soaked with blood. A large, jagged hole has punched through the driver’s side headrest, directly in line with where his head was sitting a second ago.
He is dead.
My breath catches in my throat. I am entirely alone in a bullet-riddled car, trapped in a dead-end alley, with a hit squad walking toward me.
I look at the shattered windshield. Through the rain and the remaining shards of glass, I can see the two men advancing slowly toward the front of the SUV. They have lowered their rifles, pulling sidearms from their holsters. They are coming to check the bodies.
They are coming to see if I survived the barrage.
If you fight, you break her legs. The boss doesn't care if she can walk.
The memory of the radio transmission Callum intercepted in the safe house flashes through my mind. They don't want me dead. They want the ghost accounts. They want the money.
I reach into the inside pocket of my coat.
My fingers wrap around the grip of the Glock 19. I pull it out, the metal heavy and cold in my shaking hand. I thumb the safety off, exactly the way Callum showed me in the basement.
I don't have the element of surprise. I don't have tactical training. I have a stitched wound in my side that is currently screaming in protest as I press my back against the rear passenger door.
I wait.
The crunch of heavy boots on the broken glass outside the car grows louder.
"Check the back," a rough voice says, muffled by the rain.
The shadow of a man falls across the rear window. He doesn't try to open the door immediately. He shines a bright, tactical flashlight through the tinted, bullet-scarred glass, trying to see inside.
The beam sweeps over the empty leather seat, then drops to the floorboard.
The light hits my face.
The man shouts something to his partner, reaching for the door handle.
I don't think. I don't hesitate. I don't calculate the math.
I raise the Glock with both hands, aim directly at the center of the flashlight beam, and pull the trigger.
The gun kicks violently against my palms. The sound of the gunshot inside the enclosed cabin is agonizing. The bullet shatters the remaining glass of the window, punching straight through the center of the flashlight.
The light goes out.
The man cries out, a sharp sound of pain and surprise, and stumbles backward, dropping out of sight.
"She’s armed!" the second man yells from the front of the SUV.
I scramble across the backseat, moving away from the shattered window.
I grab the dead driver's heavy pistol from the center console, slipping my Glock back into my deep coat pocket.
The movement pulls the stitches in my side, a sharp, tearing pain that makes me gasp, but I ignore it.
I throw myself against the opposite door, reaching for the handle.
If I stay in the car, I am trapped. It is a metal coffin.
I pull the handle and shove the door open.
I tumble out of the SUV, hitting the wet cobblestones of the alley hard. The rain instantly soaks through my jeans. I scramble to my feet, keeping the car between me and the front of the alley.
I look toward the back of the alley. The black Range Rover is still blocking the exit. Two more men have stepped out of the vehicle, their weapons raised, advancing toward my position.
I am boxed in.
Two men in front of the SUV. Two men behind it.
I press my back against the rear quarter panel of the Mercedes, gripping the gun tightly against my chest. My breathing is shallow and frantic. I am out of options. I am out of leverage.
"Throw the gun out, Gemma," a voice calls out from the front of the alley. It isn't the rough voice of a mercenary. It is smooth, calm, and incredibly arrogant.
I freeze.
I know that voice.
I slowly peek around the edge of the SUV’s taillight.
Standing in the rain, flanked by the two mercenaries who shot up the car, is a man wearing a dark trench coat. He is holding a black umbrella over his head, completely untouched by the weather or the violence.
It’s Arthur Vance.
Elias Vance’s son. The heir to the syndicate’s financial empire.
I stare at him, the pieces of the puzzle violently snapping together in my mind. Elias didn't orchestrate the kidnapping of Pippa. Elias was a figurehead, a corporate coward. Arthur was the one pulling the strings. Arthur is the one who set the trap for Callum.
"You killed my father," Arthur says, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the rain. He doesn't sound grieving; he sounds mildly inconvenienced. "And you stole my inheritance. I am currently in a very foul mood."
"I didn't kill your father," I shout back, my voice shaking. "Callum did."
"Yes, well, Callum is currently locked in a shipping container, waiting to be incinerated," Arthur replies smoothly. "So you will have to suffice for my vengeance. Throw the gun down."
My heart stops.
Locked in a shipping container.
They didn't kill him. They trapped him. They used Pippa as bait to lure him into a box, and now they are going to burn him alive.
The panic that has been paralyzing me suddenly evaporates, replaced by a cold, desperate fury.
I am not going to let him die in a box.
I step out from behind the cover of the SUV.
I don't lower the gun. I raise it, aiming directly at Arthur’s chest. My hands are shaking, the heavy rain blurring my vision, but I keep the sights aligned.
"Tell them to let him out," I say, my voice cracking but loud enough to be heard.
Arthur stares at me, genuine amusement flickering across his face.
"You are pointing a handgun at me while four men have automatic rifles pointed at your head," Arthur notes, gesturing vaguely to the mercenaries surrounding me. "You are not in a position to make demands, Miss Hayes."
"I have the routing numbers," I lie, my voice hardening. "I have the biometric keys to the ghost accounts. If you kill me, or if you kill Callum, you never see that four billion dollars again."
Arthur’s smile fades. "You transferred the funds. You don't need Callum to access them."
"I encrypted the final transfer," I say, stepping slightly to the left, keeping the car at my back so the men behind me don't have a clear shot. "The decryption key is split. I have half. Callum has the other half. If he dies, the money burns with him."
It is a desperate, entirely fabricated lie. The money is sitting in the ghost accounts, accessible only to me. But Arthur doesn't know that. He is a man who deals in leverage, and I just gave him the only piece of leverage he cares about.
Arthur stares at me. The rain drums heavily against his black umbrella.
He is calculating the risk. He is weighing the satisfaction of killing the man who murdered his father against the necessity of recovering his empire’s wealth.
"Lower your weapons," Arthur finally orders, glancing at the mercenaries.
The men hesitate, but they slowly lower the barrels of their rifles.
"You are bluffing," Arthur says, looking back at me.
"Kill him and find out," I challenge, keeping the Glock aimed steadily at his chest.
Arthur’s jaw tightens. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a sleek, black radio. He presses the transmit button.
"Hold the incineration protocol on the container," Arthur says into the radio. "Keep him locked inside, but do not kill him yet."
"Copy that, boss," a voice replies over the static.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. He is alive. Callum is still alive.
"Now," Arthur says, dropping the radio back into his pocket. "Put the gun down, Gemma. I am not going to ask again."
I look at the four heavily armed men. I look at Arthur.
I have bought Callum time. I have stopped the immediate execution. But I am still trapped in an alley, and I am entirely out of options.
I slowly lower the driver's gun, letting it hang by my side, keeping my coat tightly closed over my own Glock.
"Drop it," Arthur commands.
I open my hand. The driver's heavy metal weapon hits the wet cobblestones with a dull clatter.
The two mercenaries from the front of the alley immediately close the distance. One of them grabs my right arm, twisting it painfully behind my back, while the other kicks the gun away into the shadows.
"Bring her," Arthur says, turning his back on me and walking toward the main street.
The mercenary shoves me forward.
I stumble, the sharp pain in my ribs flaring again, but I force myself to keep walking. The rain soaks through my clothes, chilling me to the bone.
We walk out of the alley and onto the street. A massive, black armored transport van is idling at the curb. The side door slides open, revealing a dark, empty cargo area.
The mercenary pushes me toward the open door.
I don't fight them. I don't scream.
I climb into the back of the van, sitting down on the cold metal floor. The door slides shut, plunging me into absolute darkness. The locks engage with a heavy, final click.
I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs, shivering violently in the cold.
I am captured. Callum is trapped. The money is the only thing keeping us alive.
I close my eyes, resting my forehead against my knees.
I am not going to die tomorrow. I am coming back to you.
I hold onto his promise, repeating the words in my head like a prayer in the dark.
I bought him time. Now, he just has to figure out how to break out of a steel box.