35. Chapter 35
SEAN
"—AND THEN NOAH STARTS CRYING because the giraffes weren't close enough to the fence. So Mona has to explain that giraffes are wild animals and they go where they want. Kid wasn't having it."
Mike's voice crackles through my earpiece with laughter, the warmth in his tone bleeding through the tiny speaker. He's across the street but I can picture his face—a mix of the exasperation and pride he always gets when talking about his kids.
I'm not really sure how to respond, so I just grunt as I shuffle my weight from one foot to the other.
My gaze sweeps across the gleaming glass exterior of the office building where Londyn works, a monument to corporate ambition.
It's night, so the top of it just fades into the black sky like it's reaching for importance it'll never quite achieve.
The glow of street lights bounce off the other skyscrapers around us, creating pockets of harsh light and deep shadow.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I welcome the distraction from Mike's zoo saga. Londyn's message lights up the screen.
Londyn: Heading downstairs in five.
I glance at the time—8:00 PM—and my gut clenches.
All day I've been feeling off, like there's a storm brewing just under my skin.
I woke up with acid churning in my stomach and a sense of dread I couldn't shake.
There's also a bitter taste in my mouth, but I think seeing Londyn again and getting her home safe will help.
Once the day is done and she's secure in her apartment, hopefully this unsettled feeling will stop.
"Mateo tried to feed a pigeon some of his soft pretzel," Mike continues, "but the bird took the whole thing. Flew off with it. The look on his face was priceless. Great weekend, man. Thanks again for those plane tickets."
"Glad you got that time with them," I respond mindlessly, my attention locked on the building entrance across the street.
I adjust the cap covering my blue hair, which is my pathetic attempt at blending in while I scan the trickles of people meandering around like they have nothing better to do on a weeknight.
We're in the Financial District after business hours, so I'm not sure what they're even hoping to do here.
Either way, none of them are aware of the invisible unease dragging at me.
I wish I knew what this feeling was.
"How's everything with you and…" Mike's voice drops lower, though there's no one around listening to us. "You know who."
I don't miss the disapproval still lingering there, though it's softened since his return. Being around his wife and kids has taken the edge off his judgment. But I'm sure he knows now that Londyn and I started something. There's no trying to deny it.
"Fine," I say, not wanting to elaborate.
It isn't fine, though. Things have been strained since this past weekend when Londyn shut down and pulled away.
I can still feel her weight on my lap. The taste of her on my tongue.
The way she went from vibrant to closed-off in the space of a heartbeat, and I can't figure out how to bring her back.
The connection that had been building between us is now stretched thin, like a rubber band ready to snap.
I'll do anything to stop it from breaking.
"Hey." Mike's voice cuts back in. "You still there?"
"Yeah. Just watching."
Another lie. I'm not just watching. I'm planning.
I'm wondering if I can convince Mike to take an early night so I can get some alone time with Londyn.
Not for the obvious reasons, though I'm still getting wet dreams from the memory of her thighs against mine.
I just miss her. Miss talking to her. I miss the way her beautiful smile would peek out when she thought I wasn't paying attention.
I need to bridge this distance between us, so I'll see if she's up for another book club meeting tonight. I could read her some of that poetry she likes so much.
And I need to tell her the truth about NexaProtect and how I'm not getting paid. She's worried too much about cost, but I need to tell her I'm not leaving when the two months are up—not a chance—not unless I know for a fact she's safe.
What if she's pissed I've been lying? What if she's already decided to cut me loose regardless? What if—
The glass doors of her office building open, and my heart jumps in anticipation of seeing her again. A second later, there she is. Her hair is loose today and an oversized gray jacket hangs off her frame. Beautiful, even at this distance. Even with her head down.
But she's not alone.
Before my mind can process why, my body has a hardwired response and coils in preparation. There's something about the man beside her. The set of his shoulders. The way he's walking too close. The angle of his arm, like he's holding something.
He looks familiar, so I dig through my memories. What was his name? He's a coworker.
Josh Sullivan.
Moved to Manhattan earlier this year. Social media told me he has a girlfriend. Grew up in Oregon. Attended UCLA. His background check looked normal. Bland.
But he's too close to my Londyn and every alarm bell in my head starts blaring. Adrenaline floods my system as I watch them exit the building. My instincts are screaming that something is very, very wrong.
"Mike," I snap into the comm. "Do you have a visual? Are they talking?"
"I don't see—Hold on." A pause. "Moving in for a better look."
Maybe Josh is too close but this might be a situation where two coworkers walk out together, chatting about work or evening plans.
Maybe, but I'm not risking it.
I'm already crossing the street, weaving between cars that honk at me.
A sudden swarm of people who leave a nearby restaurant slows me down, bodies becoming obstacles in my path.
I keep my eyes locked on Londyn, on the way she's walking—too stiff, too careful.
Her face is tight with fear, eyes darting around frantically.
She's looking for me.
She needs me.
"Something's wrong," I bark at Mike, breaking into a run and shoving people away who shout after me in anger. I'm sprinting to get to her, but Mike is closer. "Move in now. Go."
My eyes dart to the black SUV waiting at the curb and I realize that's where Josh is guiding her. He places an arm around her shoulders that would look casual to anyone not trained to recognize a hostage position.
Mike's voice comes back. "Closing in."
But we're both a few too many feet away and Josh is too quick. I push my legs harder, glimpsing Londyn's panicked face as Josh opens the rear door and shoves her inside. He runs to the driver's side and gets in.
I lunge forward, but the vehicle is already pulling away from the curb. Mike lunges for the door handle, but his fingers close on empty air. The SUV accelerates, cutting into traffic with precision.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My heart is pounding in my ears, engulfing everything except the after-image of Londyn's fearful eyes searching the street for me.
Everything narrows down to this moment, this heartbeat of a decision that will change everything that comes after.
I have one second.
One second to make the right choice to save Londyn.
I could follow on foot, hoping the car gets stuck in traffic and I catch up to it at a stoplight.
I could try to catch a cab.
I could call the police.
I could wait for her to use the panic button app we installed on her phone.
I could call her and hope this is a giant misunderstanding and Londyn has a date tonight she forgot to mention.
But the streets have minimal traffic tonight and betting on traffic patterns is risky; a cab won't drive fast enough; the police will get here too late; she might not have access to her phone.
And I know what I saw. I know Londyn. The fear in her eyes wasn't "I'm mildly uncomfortable with my coworker." It was pure terror.
The heartbeat passes and I make a decision.
I turn and run in the opposite direction.
"Mike, follow on foot as best you can and get the license plate.
See if her phone is tracking. If you get a chance to intercept, do it.
Get her out. If you get a clear shot, take out a tire.
" The words come rapid-fire, my training kicking in.
"I'm getting my vehicle. The garage is four blocks away. "
I don't wait for Mike's acknowledgement.
I'm already running, cutting through traffic, dodging bodies, ignoring the shouts when I shoulder past someone too hard.
My muscles burn as I push my legs to work faster and faster.
Every second, Londyn gets farther away from me, dragged deeper into a danger I worry I can't pull her from.
My combat boots pound against concrete. The crosswalk ahead turns red, but I don't slow down. Cars honk as I dart between them, narrowly missing a truck that screeches to a halt, the driver leaning on his horn and shouting something about my parentage.
I sprint past the gleaming lobby of One Liberty Plaza, dodging tourists. Just one more block.
My lungs feel like they're filled with shrapnel, but I keep pushing. The parking garage comes into view. It's a dingy concrete structure squeezed between two newer buildings. I paid extra for street-level access; it's a tactical decision that's about to pay off.
My red Ducati sits right where I left it.
The key is in my hand before I fully stop running. I swing my leg over, jam the key into the ignition, and the engine roars to life. The raw power vibrates beneath me as I twist the throttle. I don't bother with a helmet. Every second counts.
The security arm is down, but I don't have time for the ticket machine.
I veer right, squeezing through the narrow gap between the barrier and the wall, a maneuver I practiced for exactly this kind of scenario.
The tires squeal as I launch back onto the street and the bike tilts at a dangerous angle before righting itself.
"Mike, update."