Chapter 217
She found a bodega on the corner of Pine and 5th. The neon OPEN sign buzzed and flickered in the rain.
She pushed inside. The clerk, a bored teenager, didn’t look up from his phone.
Cailin went to the back. A payphone — an ancient, graffiti-covered relic — hung on the wall. She fumbled in her pocket for loose change from the cash Kegan’s man had pressed into her hand. Her fingers shook so badly she dropped a quarter. She bent to retrieve it, wincing as her shoulder ignited with fresh pain.
She dialed. She knew the number by heart. It was the emergency line — the number Kegan had made her memorize five years ago.
Ring.
Ring.
“Talk,” a voice answered. Low. Dangerous.
“Kegan,” Cailin choked out.
“Cali?” The voice changed instantly. The hard edge vanished, replaced by a terrifying intensity. “Where are you? Your emergency comms went dark after the drop.”
“I had to go to ground,” she whispered. “I’m at a bodega. Pine and 5th. Gregg English owns the police, Kegan. I saw him.”
“I know,” Kegan said. “Are you hurt?”
“My shoulder — Charla—” She couldn’t finish. The room was beginning to spin.
“Stay there,” Kegan ordered. “Do not go outside. Do not talk to anyone. Three minutes.”
“Kegan, the kids—”
“They are with Ashley. They are moving to the safe house now. We were just waiting for you.”
Cailin let out a sob of relief. She slid down the wall and sat on the dirty linoleum floor. “Okay. Okay.”
“Three minutes, Cali. Stay with me.”
She pressed the receiver to her ear and listened to his breathing. It was the only thing anchoring her to the world.
Two minutes and forty seconds later, tires screeched outside.
Not sirens. Heavy, aggressive tires.
Two black armored SUVs mounted the curb and blocked the storefront. The doors flew open and four men in tactical gear poured out, securing the perimeter.
Then Kegan.
He strode into the bodega wearing a long black trench coat soaked through with rain. He looked like a wraith — a spirit of pure, cold vengeance.
He saw her on the floor.
His face, usually so carefully composed, fractured.
“Cali.”
He was beside her in an instant, dropping to one knee in the dirt. He didn’t ask if she was all right. He took in the sling, the blood dried on her lip, and said nothing. He simply scooped her up into his arms, indifferent to the mud on her clothes, and held her as though she were made of something fragile and irreplaceable.
“Burn the tapes,” he said to one of his men, nodding at the security camera above the counter.
The man vaulted over the counter without a word. The clerk yelped.
Kegan carried her out into the rain. The cool air hit her face, but she felt warm. She felt safe.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered against her hair. “No one touches you again.”
He placed her in the back of the SUV. The leather was soft. She closed her eyes.
“Go,” Kegan said to the driver.