Chapter 3 - The Trap at the Safehouse
""Because you're alive,"" Grant said, stepping forward until the toe of his leather shoe brushed hers. He reached out, his leather-gloved fingers hovering just an inch from her cheek, hesitating as if afraid she might shatter back into ash and memory. When she didn't flinch away, he touched her skin. She was cold, shivering faintly under the threadbare cardigan. ""And because nobody touches what is mine and continues to draw breath.""
""I am not your property, Grant,"" she snapped, though her voice lacked venom, drowning instead in sheer exhaustion. ""I was an inconvenience to your bloodline. Desmond made that clear. He said a mob boss doesn't marry an art restorer without a family name. He needed you clean, reputable, and tied to Langford money.""
""Desmond signed his own death warrant the moment he forged that paper,"" Grant murmured, his jaw hardening into granite. He took off his heavy black trench coat and wrapped it around her shoulders before she could protest. The wool was warm, carrying his signature scent of cedarwood and crisp linen. ""Pack whatever you cannot bear to leave. We are leaving right now.""
""I'm not going to your mansion,"" Jolene said, her voice rising in panic. ""Monica is there. Desmond is on your board! If they see me—""
""Do you think I'm taking you to a ballroom?"" Grant interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. He walked over to the corner, took down the tiny drying onesies, and folded them with meticulous, deliberate care, placing them into her cracked vinyl duffel bag. ""I have safe houses Desmond doesn't know exist. Properties bought under shell entities before my father even stepped down. You will have doctors, proper heat, food, and twenty-four-hour armed perimeter security.""
Before Jolene could answer, the faint crunch of gravel in the alleyway below echoed through the loose window pane. Grant went instantly motionless. His left hand pushed Jolene behind him, pressing her against the alcove between the small refrigerator and the wall, while his right hand smoothly drew the Kimber .45 from beneath his arm. The hammer clicked back with a clean, lethal metallic snap.
Through the thin wooden flooring, heavy, deliberate footsteps ascended the fire escape. These were not the shuffling, irregular steps of a tired neighbor. They were synchronized, three distinct treads, moving with tactical precision.
""Grant..."" Jolene breathed, her fingers clutching his dark shirt. ""Nobody ever comes up the back.""
""Quiet,"" he ordered softly.
The window overlooking the fire escape shattered inward in an explosion of glass shards and splintered frame. A silhouette dressed in black tactical gear breached the sill, a silenced submachine gun swinging toward the room. Grant didn't wait for the barrel to level. He fired twice through the cascade of falling glass. The suppressed cracks of the .45 were deafening in the tiny room. The intruder collapsed backward across the sill, knocked clean off his feet by the heavy rounds, tumbling down the metal stairs outside.
""Move! Front door, now!"" Grant grabbed Jolene’s arm, shielding her entirely with his wide frame as a hail of suppressed fire tore through the flimsy drywall from the outside hallway. Desmond hadn't just discovered she was alive; he had tracked Grant’s car from downtown.
The front door splintered as a boot kicked through the lock. Grant fired three blind rounds through the center panel. A man screamed on the other side, slumping to the floor. Grant kicked the shattered remains of the door open, stepped over the bleeding body of a mercenary he recognized from Desmond’s private security payroll, and dragged Jolene toward the service elevator at the end of the hall.
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""He knows,"" Jolene gasped, stumbling as her hand flew to her stomach, her breath coming in ragged, painful wheezes. ""Desmond knows you found me!""
""Good,"" Grant growled, jamming the elevator button, his eyes scanning every dark corner of the corridor with feral intensity. ""Then he knows his time has expired.""
