Chapter 4 - The Fortress Mobilizes
"Tyler!" I screamed into the phone, slamming my palm against the glass screen. "Tyler! Pick up!"
The call ended with three monotone beeps. The silence that followed was terrifying. My knees buckled beneath me, and I sank onto the edge of the mattress, my vision blurring with panicked tears. My baby brother was alone in an industrial rail yard in the middle of the night, being hunted by armed professional killers.
"Nora."
Desmond’s hand reached out, clamping down on my forearm with astonishing strength. His grip was warm, solid, and utterly grounding.
"Look at me," he commanded.
I forced myself to lift my head. The cold detachment in his face had completely vanished, replaced by the lethal, calculating fire of a commander going to war.
"Callahan used your brother's credentials because Tyler was a clean employee with no criminal record," Desmond said, his voice steady and resolute. "If the bomb killed me, Callahan took over my empire. If the bomb failed and an investigation started, your brother took the fall as an amateur patsy. And having you in my house was his insurance policy—if I found out about the money, I’d execute you, Callahan would frame it as a family vendetta, and the cops would close the case."
"He's going to kill Tyler," I choked out, a sob tearing through my throat.
"Not on my watch," Desmond said. He hit the intercom button on the headboard. "Frankie. Get Marco, Dom, and the outer perimeter team into the armory now. Bring my transport chair and the armored Suburban to the courtyard."
Within forty seconds, the bedroom doors burst open. Frankie rushed inside, holding two encrypted radios, his face flushed with confusion. "Boss? What about the nurse?"
"The nurse is clean," Desmond barked, throwing off the heavy duvet with his left arm. "Marcus Callahan is the mole. He’s hunting her brother down at the 51st Street rail yard right now to tie off the loose end. We move in five minutes."
Frankie froze, his eyes widening in pure shock. "Callahan? But boss... he’s family."
"Family doesn't plant C4 under your floorboards, Frankie," Desmond snarled, grabbing the overhead trapeze bar with practiced, violent strength and swinging his torso into the heavy-duty transfer wheelchair beside the bed. "Now move your ass before I leave you behind."
I wiped the tears from my cheeks with the sleeve of my scrub top, stepping up to lock the footplates into place. Desmond looked up at me as I adjusted his legs.
"You stay here, Nora," he said, reaching down to buckle his leather support strap. "The compound is secured. Nobody gets through the gates."
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"Like hell I’m staying," I snapped, grabbing my medical kit from the corner counter and slinging the strap over my shoulder. "Tyler is my brother. And you still haven't taken your medication."
Desmond stared at me for two long seconds, a wild, dangerous grin breaking across his scarred face. "God help me, you're insane. Grab the spare magazines from the top drawer and follow me."
