Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 34715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Tears spill down my cheeks as I kiss him, hard and desperate and full of relief. He kisses me back like I’m the only thing anchoring him to this world. When we finally pull apart, both breathing hard, he rests his forehead against mine again.
"We got the drives," I whisper. "We’ve got what we need to end this."
He nods, but his eyes are still haunted. "We did. But Langford got away. And my dad… he’s still out there. Nash and Sin are still missing."
I kiss him once more, soft and reassuring. "I love you, Banks. We’ll find them. Together."
Banks holds me tight, one hand buried in my hair, the other stroking my back like he needs to reassure himself I’m really here and safe. For now, in this stolen moment on the dark back road, we have each other.
And that’s enough to keep fighting.
TWENTY-ONE
BANKS
The cabin feels different tonight.
We made it back just after midnight, both of us exhausted, dirty, and still riding the high of adrenaline and pure relief. The drive from the warehouse was quiet at first. The kind of silence that settles in after you have looked death in the face and somehow walked away breathing. Anniston sits beside me the entire way with her hand resting on my thigh, like she needs the constant contact to believe we’re really safe. I keep one hand on the wheel and the other covering hers, grounding myself in the warmth of her skin and the steady rhythm of her breathing.
When we finally pull up to the cabin, the familiar sight of the small wooden structure nestled among the pines hits me harder than I expected. For the first time in months, it doesn’t feel like just another safe house. It feels like coming home.
I lock the heavy deadbolt behind us the second we step inside, then go through my usual routine of checking every window, resetting the perimeter alarms, and making sure the motion sensors are active. Anniston watches me from the middle of the living room. She looks tired, a little roughed up, and so damn beautiful it makes my chest ache.
“Come here. Let me take a better look at that wound.”
We move into the kitchen and I sit her down.
“It is not that bad,” she says. “Who do you think caused the explosion?”
I shake my head. “I honestly don’t know. I have no fucking clue as to what’s going on. But after I bandage you up I need to call my brothers.”
She nods. “Do you really think it’s over?”
I wish I could tell her yes. “Langford is. You’ll be safe, but I still don’t know how my father fits into everything. I don’t know where the fuck Nash and Sin are.” I wet a towel to clean the blood as I grab my first aid kit from the shelf.
I lose myself in the simple task of cleaning her up as my mind spins. What the fuck is going on? Who was shooting at us? Who interrupted the meeting and why? When I finish with the bandage I lean back in the chair.
“What are you thinking?” Anniston asks me.
I scrub a hand down my face. “Honestly? I have no fucking idea.”
She smiles, and the sight of it nearly knocks me on the ground. “I have a small idea. It could be wrong, but what if the men who shot up the place were working with Wyatt? Maybe your father and Wyatt are working together? I don’t know.”
I cup her cheek. “We’ll look into it.” I pull my phone out, putting a call into Crewe.
I tell him what happened, and he tells me Vance is cleaning up the mess that was made at the warehouse. Local PD hasn’t found anyone except a few bodies here and there. They’ll have more answers in the morning.
“Somebody didn’t want that meeting to happen,” I say into the phone.
Crewe agrees, and I tell him I’m going to see what’s on the hard drives we recovered from the meeting.
I hang up and look at Anniston. The hard drives and digital recorder we grabbed from the table sit on the kitchen counter like bombs waiting to go off.
“We need to see what’s on these,” I say.
I pull out my air-gapped laptop—the one I never connect to any network—and set it up on the table. Anniston sits beside me, shoulder pressed against mine. I plug the recorder in first.
The footage is crystal clear.
Victor Langford sits at the head of the table, calm and arrogant, discussing payoffs, shell companies, and “asset neutralization.” My stomach turns when he casually mentions “the Hawthorne problem.” He talks about Nash and Sin like they’re loose ends that needed tying up. He even references my father, calling him a “loose cannon who got too close.”
But the worst part is when he looks straight at the camera and says, “The girl… Anniston Wells… needs to be eliminated quietly. She knows too much.”