Chapter 6 - A Price on Her Head
Within ten minutes, Meera had stripped out of the cherry silk dress, leaving it folded neatly on the leather sofa like a relic from another lifetime. In its place, she wore black cargo pants, thick tactical boots, and a dark fitted turtleneck borrowed from the safehouse armory. Over it, Damian strapped a lightweight Kevlar vest, pulling the velcro straps tight against her ribs until she gasped.
""Too tight?"" he asked, his hands lingering on the fastenings at her waist.
""No,"" she said, steadying her breath. ""Just tight enough to remind me that this isn't a board meeting.""
Damian handed her a compact, sleek Glock 19. He checked the slide himself, showing her the chamber before setting the safety and handing it over grip-first. ""Do you remember how to use this?""
Meera took the weapon. The grip felt heavy, cold, and solid in her hand. ""You made me spend forty hours at your private firing range in Racine last winter. Sight alignment, trigger control, clear malfunctions.""
""Good girl,"" he murmured, his voice sending an involuntary shiver through her despite the life-or-death stakes. ""If anyone who isn't wearing my insignia comes within five feet of you, don't hesitate. You aim center-mass and squeeze until the slide locks back.""
""Damian,"" she said, holding his gaze as he loaded extra magazines into his tactical vest. ""Marcone wants me because I know the financial architecture. He thinks he can force me to transfer your assets to his laundering network in Panama. If he gets his hands on me, he won't just kill me. He'll torture me until I bleed every account dry.""
Damian stopped. He stepped into her personal space, reaching out to grasp the back of her neck with his gloved hand, pulling her forward until their foreheads almost touched.
""No one is touching you, Meera,"" he swore, his voice a low, vibrating growl that held the weight of an iron covenant. ""I would burn down every precinct, every harbor, and every building in this state before I let Marcone lay a single finger on you. Do you understand me? You are mine to protect. Trust me.""
Looking into his dark, relentless eyes, Meera realized with sudden, terrifying clarity that she did trust him. Far more than she had ever trusted the safe, predictable men like David. Damian Croft was a predator, but he was her predator, and tonight, he was waging an entire war simply to keep her breathing.
""I trust you,"" she whispered.
Damian’s jaw relaxed slightly, an uncharacteristic tenderness flashing across his scarred features before hardening back into stone. ""Let's move.""
Outside, four black armored Suburbans idle quietly in the pouring rain. A dozen of Damian’s most hardened mercenaries—men who had fought in private military outfits across Eastern Europe and South America—stood in the rain, fully armed and waiting for orders.
Damian stepped onto the covered porch, Meera beside him.
""Listen up,"" Damian commanded, his voice cutting cleanly through the roaring storm. ""Marcone hit our Southside facility and thinks he holds the cards. He's expecting us to walk into Navy Pier like whipped dogs begging for terms. We don't negotiate. We breach from the north slip, cut the power to the main grid, and eliminate every armed hostile in the facility. No prisoners. No survivors.""
The men gave silent, disciplined nods. There was no hesitation, no question of authority. Damian Croft didn't command through consensus; he commanded through sheer absolute will.
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Meera climbed into the reinforced passenger seat of the lead vehicle. Damian slid in beside her, chambering a round into his custom assault rifle with a sharp metallic snap.
The convoy accelerated down the winding driveway, tires kicking up wet gravel as they surged toward the Chicago skyline, heading straight into the mouth of the storm.
