CHAPTER 29
AUDREY
The heavy steel door clicks shut.
The sound echoes in the massive, empty loft, loud and final. I stare at the metal surface. The deadbolt is engaged from the outside. He locked me in. He actually locked me in a bunker while he walked downstairs to let his father’s mercenaries execute him in the street.
My chest tightens so violently I can't draw a breath.
If they come up here, we both die.
I take a step toward the door. My hand reaches for the heavy metal lever, but I stop inches from the cold steel.
If I open it, I expose his back. If I open it, Preston’s men have a clear line of sight into the loft. Malcolm calculated the structural integrity of the door before he left. He knows it will hold them long enough for the police to arrive, provided someone actually calls the police.
I spin around, my boots slipping slightly on the concrete floor.
I look at the spot where Malcolm dropped his phone. The screen is completely shattered, the internal components crushed under the heel of his boot. He destroyed it so Preston couldn't track the GPS.
My phone.
I left my phone on the metal desk when we were eating pasta.
I run across the loft, my heavy winter coat flapping around my knees. I grab my phone off the desk. The screen is still cracked from when I dropped it in the boutique, but it lights up when I press the side button.
I dial 911.
My thumb hovers over the green call button.
I stop.
Your head of security is currently unconscious in the alley behind your warehouse.
Preston’s voice from the phone call echoes in my head.
Preston knows the police are looking for him.
He knows the FBI is raiding his holding company.
He wouldn't show up to an off-the-grid warehouse with four men carrying automatic rifles unless he owned the local precinct.
If I call 911, the dispatcher will route the call to the nearest patrol cars.
If Preston has officers on his payroll in this district, they won't come to save Malcolm.
They will come to secure the perimeter for Preston.
I lower the phone.
My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop the device again. I press the heel of my hand against my sternum, forcing myself to breathe.
Think like an architect. Think like a tactician.
I look around the loft. The windows are narrow and frosted, but they are reinforced with security wire. Malcolm said the safe house was designed for high-risk extractions. He wouldn't design a bunker with only one exit. It defies basic structural logic.
I run toward the back of the loft, past the stainless steel kitchen. There is a heavy fire door at the end of the corridor, painted industrial red.
I push the push-bar. The door opens heavily, revealing a dark, narrow stairwell that smells like damp concrete and rust. It isn't the main stairwell Malcolm used. It’s a secondary fire escape.
I step onto the landing, letting the heavy door click shut behind me.
The stairwell is freezing. I pull my coat tighter around my body and start running down the concrete steps. I don't try to be quiet. I need to move fast. If Preston’s men are covering the front entrance, they might have someone stationed at the back.
I reach the ground floor.
There is another heavy red door. I press my ear against the cold metal. I don't hear voices. I don't hear the idle of an engine.
I push the bar.
The door opens into a narrow, filthy alleyway behind the warehouse. The wind cuts through the gap between the brick buildings, carrying the faint smell of garbage and exhaust fumes.
I step out into the alley, letting the door close softly behind me.
I scan the shadows. The alley is dark, illuminated only by a single, flickering streetlamp near the far end. There are massive commercial dumpsters lined up against the brick wall.
"Grant," I whisper, my voice barely carrying over the wind.
Nothing moves.
I walk further into the alley, my boots crunching softly against a patch of dirty ice. I keep my back pressed against the brick wall of the warehouse, moving toward the dumpsters.
He is alive. For now.
I reach the first dumpster. I peek around the edge.
A massive, dark shape is lying on the ground between the dumpster and the wall.
I drop to my knees on the freezing asphalt.
Grant is lying on his side. His dark overcoat is torn at the shoulder, and a dark, wet stain is spreading across the collar of his white shirt. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow and ragged.
"Grant," I say, my voice cracking. I reach out, my hands trembling, and press my fingers against the side of his neck. His pulse is there, but it is weak.
He groans, a low, gravelly sound, and his eyelids flutter open.
He looks at me, his eyes taking a second to focus in the dim light. When he registers my face, he tries to sit up, his massive hand immediately reaching for the empty holster strapped to his chest.
"Don't move," I tell him, pressing my hand against his uninjured shoulder to keep him down. "You're bleeding. They hit you."
"Ambush," Grant rasps, his voice thick with pain. "Two men. Suppressed weapons. They took the sidearm."
"I know. Preston is out front. He has four men with rifles." I look at the dark stain on his shirt. "I need to call an ambulance."
"No." Grant grips my wrist with surprising strength. "Preston monitors the local dispatch. If you call an ambulance, he will know you are out of the loft."
"Malcolm went downstairs to trade himself for me," I say, the panic finally breaking through my controlled facade. Tears spill over my lashes, hot against the freezing wind. "I can't just sit here and let him die, Grant. I have to do something."
Grant closes his eyes, exhaling a slow, ragged breath. "My ankle."
I frown. "What?"
"Right ankle," Grant murmurs, his grip on my wrist loosening. "Backup piece."
I don't hesitate. I crawl down toward his boots. I pull up the hem of his dark trousers. Strapped to his right ankle is a small, compact black holster holding a secondary firearm.
I unclip the holster and pull the gun out.
It is heavy. The metal is freezing against my bare hands. I have never held a gun in my life. I don't know how to check the safety. I don't know how to aim it properly.
"It’s loaded," Grant says, his voice weaker now. "Point and pull. Do not hesitate, Audrey. If they see you, they will not ask questions."
I look at the gun, then up at the dark alley leading toward the front of the building.
I am an architect. I draw lines on paper. I calculate load-bearing walls and aesthetic lighting. I am not a killer. I am not a soldier.
But the man I love is currently standing in front of a firing squad because he thought I was too fragile to save myself.
"Stay awake, Grant," I order, my voice dropping to a cold, absolute register that sounds terrifyingly like Malcolm. "I’ll be right back."
I stand up. I grip the heavy metal gun with both hands, keeping the barrel pointed at the ground, and walk toward the edge of the alley.
I reach the corner of the brick building. I press my back against the rough stone, my heart hammering so violently I can feel it in my throat. I edge closer to the corner, peering around the brick to look at the front of the warehouse.
The black SUV is still parked in the middle of the street.
Preston Vance is standing near the open back door of the vehicle. He is wearing a long cashmere overcoat, looking completely untouched by the freezing wind.
Two of the men in tactical gear are standing near the hood of the SUV, their rifles aimed directly at the front doors of the warehouse. The other two men are standing behind Preston.
The heavy metal doors of the warehouse open.
Malcolm steps out.
He doesn't have his hands raised. He doesn't look defeated. He walks out of the building with the slow, predatory grace of a man who owns the ground he is walking on. The wind catches the hem of his open coat, exposing the white shirt underneath.
He stops ten feet away from Preston.
"Where is she?" Preston asks, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet street.
"She is locked in the loft," Malcolm replies smoothly. "The steel doors will hold your men long enough for the federal agents tracking my phone to arrive."
"You destroyed your phone, Malcolm. We monitored the signal drop." Preston smiles, a cold, arrogant expression. "You are bluffing. Just like you bluffed about the SEC."
"I didn't bluff about the SEC," Malcolm says. "The files are already in the prosecutor’s inbox. The raid on the holding company is currently underway. You lost, Preston. The only thing you are accomplishing here is adding a murder charge to your federal indictment."
Preston’s smile vanishes. The realization hits him. Malcolm didn't come down here to negotiate. He came down here to stall.
"Kill him," Preston orders the two men near the hood of the SUV.
The men raise their rifles.
My brain stops calculating. The fear completely evaporates, replaced by a pure, blinding surge of adrenaline.
I step out from behind the brick wall.
I raise the heavy black gun, point it directly at the sky, and pull the trigger.
The gunshot is deafening. The sound echoes off the concrete buildings, a massive, violent crack that shatters the silence of the street.
The recoil jerks my arms upward, sending a sharp pain through my wrists, but I don't drop the weapon. I lower the barrel, aiming it directly at the group of men standing by the SUV.
Everyone freezes.
The two men with rifles whip around, aiming their weapons at me.
Preston turns, his eyes widening in absolute shock as he registers the woman in the winter coat standing in the street, holding a gun.
Malcolm doesn't look at me. He doesn't even flinch at the sound of the gunshot.
The moment the two men turn their rifles toward me, Malcolm moves.
He crosses the ten feet of space between him and the SUV in a fraction of a second.
He grabs the barrel of the nearest rifle, ripping it out of the contractor’s hands with a violent, brutal force.
He doesn't shoot the man. He swings the heavy stock of the rifle like a club, catching the contractor directly in the jaw. The man goes down instantly.
The second contractor turns back toward Malcolm, raising his weapon.
I don't think. I pull the trigger again.
The bullet shatters the side mirror of the SUV, inches from the second contractor’s head. He ducks instinctively, throwing his arms up to shield his face from the flying glass.
It gives Malcolm exactly the opening he needs.
Malcolm drops the rifle he is holding, grabs the second contractor by the tactical vest, and slams him brutally against the hood of the SUV. The man drops his weapon, sliding unconscious to the pavement.
The remaining two men standing behind Preston draw their sidearms.
"Drop them," a new voice echoes through the street.
The sound of multiple car doors slamming shut cuts through the freezing wind.
I look past the SUV.
Three black, unmarked sedans have pulled up to the far end of the street, blocking the intersection. A dozen men wearing tactical gear with the letters FBI stenciled across their backs are pouring out of the vehicles, their weapons drawn and aimed directly at Preston’s men.
"Federal agents! Drop your weapons and get on the ground!" a man with a megaphone shouts.
The two remaining contractors look at the dozen federal agents, then at Preston. They don't hesitate. They drop their sidearms onto the asphalt and put their hands on their heads, dropping to their knees.
Preston Vance stands perfectly still.
He doesn't raise his hands. He looks at the federal agents, then at Malcolm, and finally, his eyes lock onto me.
The absolute, crushing realization of his defeat is written across his face. He didn't lose his empire to the SEC. He didn't lose his legacy to the press.
He lost it to the stray.
Two federal agents move forward, grabbing Preston by the arms and forcing his hands behind his back. The heavy click of handcuffs echoes in the quiet street.
I lower the gun. My arms are shaking so badly I can barely hold the heavy metal.
Malcolm turns around.
He looks at the federal agents securing his father. He looks at the unconscious men on the ground. Then, he looks at me.
He crosses the street, his strides long and urgent. He doesn't care about the FBI agents swarming the scene. He doesn't care about the flashing lights.
He reaches me, his hands wrapping around my wrists. He gently takes the heavy black gun from my trembling fingers, setting it on the hood of a nearby parked car.
He pulls me into his chest.
I bury my face in the collar of his coat, my hands gripping the lapels with a desperate, frantic strength. I am shaking violently, the adrenaline crash hitting me with the force of a freight train.
"You didn't lock the door," Malcolm whispers into my hair. His voice is rough, completely stripped of its usual control.
"I told you," I sob against his chest, the tears finally breaking free. "I am not going to let you fall on your sword for me."
Malcolm’s arms tighten around me, lifting me slightly off the ground. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.
"Grant," I gasp, remembering the alley. I pull back slightly, looking up at his face. "Malcolm, Grant is in the alley. They shot him. He’s bleeding."
Malcolm’s expression hardens instantly. He turns his head, shouting to one of the federal agents. "We need a medic in the east alley! Now!"
Two agents immediately break off from the group, running toward the side of the warehouse.
Malcolm looks back down at me. He frames my face with his hands, his thumbs wiping the tears from my cheeks.
"Are you hurt?" he demands, his eyes scanning my face with a frantic intensity.
"I'm fine. I just... I shot a car." I let out a wet, hysterical laugh. "I think I need a lawyer."
A slow, devastating smile breaks across Malcolm’s face. It is the first time I have ever seen him smile without a trace of irony or calculation. It is pure, absolute relief.
"I know a very good attorney," he murmurs, his thumb brushing against my lower lip.
He kisses me.
The cold wind, the flashing lights, the sound of the sirens—it all fades into the background. I lean into him, my hands tangling in his dark hair, anchoring myself to the only safe place left in the world.
The war is over.
The Vance empire is gone.
But as Malcolm pulls me closer, the heavy weight of his arms shielding me from the cold, I know exactly what we are going to build in the ashes.