Chapter 2 - Shadow Over the Safehouse
Through the parted slats of Paige’s front blinds, I saw the twin beams of halogen headlights slicing through the suburban fog. Two matte-black Cadillac Escalades had mounted the curb, blocking the driveway at an aggressive angle. Four men in tailored dark suits stepped out, their hands buried inside their wool coats in that practiced, unmistakable stance of concealed carry.
"They cut the power grid to the block," Paige breathed, her hand flying to her mouth. "They’re already here."
"Not through the front," I whispered, the adrenaline flooding my veins and drowning out the postpartum pain. "The back alley behind your garden. Does the gate still stick?"
"I greased it last weekend," Paige answered, her eyes wide with terror. "Take my keys. The hybrid is parked by the community dumpsters. It doesn't have GPS tracking linked to my hospital account."
I didn't waste a second. I strapped Ren into the portable infant carrier, throwing a thick woolen blanket over the canopy to shield her from the biting Atlanta autumn wind. Paige guided me through the utility room, easing the back door open without a sound. The air smelled of wet asphalt and pine needles.
Behind us, the heavy thump of tactical boots echoed against Paige's front porch. A heavy, measured knock rattled the frame.
"Dr. Miller," a voice boomed from the front. It wasn't Colton. It was Tom, his older brother, the cold-eyed enforcer who handled the Beckett syndicate's messiest cleanups. "Open the door. We aren't here for a conversation."
I slipped through the wooden garden gate, keeping low beneath the shadow of the tall cedar hedges. Every step sent a jolt of fire through my pelvic floor, but fear for my seventeen-day-old infant pushed me forward. Ren didn't make a sound; she stayed tucked against my chest, her tiny breaths warm against my neck.
I reached Paige’s dark sedan, unlocked the passenger door manually, and clicked the car seat into the base. My hands were shaking so violently I dropped the key fob twice on the rubber floor mat. Just as I started the quiet electric engine, the wooden fence behind Paige’s house splintered with a loud crack.
A tall figure emerged from the shadows into the alleyway, raising a tactical flashlight. The beam caught my rearview mirror, blinding me for a split second.
"Stop the car, Lauren!" Tom shouted, jogging toward the vehicle, his trench coat billowing in the wind. "You don't understand what you're running into! Stop!"
I didn't hit the brakes. I threw the sedan into reverse, tires screeching against the damp concrete, and spun the wheel toward the main avenue. Tom didn't draw a weapon—he wouldn't dare risk harming Ren—which gave me the two seconds I needed to punch the accelerator and rocket out onto the boulevard.
In the rearview mirror, Tom was already speaking into a radio headset, gesturing toward the main road where two more dark sedans were rounding the corner.
My husband’s net was closing.
I drove through the back streets of Decatur, avoiding the highways entirely. Every set of headlights behind me felt like an execution squad. My mind kept flashing back to the envelope on Colton's desk: Colton Beckett and Jade Foresight. One-way to Lisbon.
Why run? Why tear up the city to keep a wife and child you were planning to abandon in eleven days? Was he planning to take Ren with him? Did Jade want my daughter to raise as her own while I was left discarded in Atlanta? The thought made a sickening wave of bile rise in my throat. Mafia men didn't just walk away from their blood. If Colton wanted a fresh start in Europe with his mistress, he wouldn't leave his only heir behind with a woman who knew all his legitimate shell companies.
He was hunting us down to take her.
I pulled into a 24-hour convenience store three miles outside city limits, staying in the shadows behind the tractor-trailers. I needed cash, water, and infant formula. But as I stepped into the fluorescent light of the convenience store, the little television mounted above the cash register caught my eye.
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A breaking news banner was scrolling across the local morning bulletin: FEDERAL INVESTIGATION TARGETS ATLANTA SHIPPING MAGNATE. CARTEL RETALIATION SUSPECTED IN DOWNTOWN WAREHOUSE EXPLOSION.
And beneath the headline was a photograph of Jade Foresight, labeled not as a business associate, but as a Senior Undercover Agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
