Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
“I’ve got an address. DC suburbs. House is listed for sale. Showing last week had the listing changed to pending. Cash buyer. Shell company. It’s clean on the surface, Loco. Too clean.”
Too clean meant dirty underneath.
By the time the skyline came into view, my adrenaline had sharpened into something cold and lethal. This wasn’t panic anymore. This was hunt mode. The part of me I had tried to bury under years of badges and rules and restraint.
The house sat on a quiet street lined with winter-bare trees and tidy sidewalks. White siding. Black shutters. A realtor’s sign staked into the front lawn like a lie.
Empty.
That was what it wanted to look like. But something wasn’t right.
I killed the engine a block away. Tower did the same. With the other Saints moving in behind us but giving a wide berth. None of us wanted to spook the man holding her. We moved on foot, silent, circling the property. No cars in the driveway. No lights on. Curtains gone from the windows.
A house stripped to be shown. Or a house scrubbed to erase evidence. I pressed my palm to the front door.
Cold.
Unlocked. That was the first real sign. People lock empty houses. They don’t lock places they think no one will ever check.
We slipped inside, boots whispering against hardwood. The air was stale, tinged with bleach and dust. No furniture. No pictures. No life.
But the hum.
Low. Constant.
Basement.
I didn’t wait. I moved toward the door at the back of the house, my gun already in my hand, heart pounding so loud I was sure it would give us away. Tower took point behind me, his presence steady, lethal, trusted.
The basement door was closed.
And from the other side— A man’s voice.
Calm. Educated. Annoyingly patient. “…you’ve done excellent work, Banks. Truly. But you’ve pushed this far enough. And now you’re forcing my hand.”
My blood went ice cold.
Nita.
I took the stairs two at a time, gun raised, vision tunneling.
The basement was finished but bare—concrete walls, exposed beams, a single overhead bulb casting harsh light. She was chained to a metal post in the center of the room. Bruised. Pale. But upright. Unbroken.
Her eyes lifted—And locked on mine.
Relief slammed into my chest so hard it almost dropped me.
The man stood a few feet away from her, tablet in one hand, a gun hanging loose in the other. Middle-aged. Expensive coat. Politician-clean. The kind of man who never got his own hands dirty and thought that made him untouchable.
“She wouldn’t listen,” he said conversationally, not even turning to face me yet. “Some people confuse integrity with stubbornness.”
I didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.
He finally turned, surprise flickering across his face before he masked it with a thin smile.
“Well,” he said. “You must be Dante Verdone.”
Nita’s mouth trembled. “I knew you’d find me,” she whispered.
That was it. That was the last thing holding me together. The man lifted the gun.
I fired first.
The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. The recoil ran through my arm, but I stayed locked in, trained, controlled. He went down hard, the tablet shattering against the floor as his body collapsed.
Tower moved instantly, clearing the room, gun sweeping corners, but my focus was already gone.
I was on my knees in front of her in seconds, hands shaking as I reached for her face, the chain, anything.
“Nita,” I breathed. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Her skin was cold. Too cold. I shrugged out of my jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders, my fingers fumbling with the cuffs.
“I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “He—he made me type it. The resignation. He said if I didn’t—”
“Hey,” I cut in, pressing my forehead to hers. “Look at me. You did what you had to do. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks, silent and exhausted. “He wanted me to cite you. Us. Said it made it clean. Said it would discredit the case.”
My jaw tightened. “What case.”
“The senator,” she whispered. “The money laundering. The shell nonprofits. Hampton Stanley’s connections and scams ran deeper than just Dreadnought, North Carolina. I was closing in on another politician. This one holds a senate seat. The man over there said he was the fixer.”
Tower spoke quietly into his comm behind us. “Local PD en route. We’re clear.”
I finished unlocking the chain and lifted her carefully, cradling her against my chest like she was made of glass.
She clung to me, arms tight, breath shuddering. “I wasn’t scared,” she admitted softly. “Not the whole time. I kept thinking you don’t quit. You don’t let go.”
I pressed a kiss into her hair, my voice breaking for the first time since the call came in. “Never. Not you. Not ever.”
As sirens grew in the distance, I held her tighter, grounding both of us in the truth we’d clawed back from the dark.
She was here.
She was alive.