Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
She goes still. My words settle between us, and I’m not sure where to start unpacking them. I don’t do feelings. I refuse to give them any breathing room.
“You’re basically kidnapping me,” she says, heat in her voice. “Do you expect me to just say thank you?”
“I expect you to stay alive. This is your best chance, and I’m not debating it another minute. I understand this world. You don’t.”
Her mouth flattens. “You think keeping me here protects me, but you’re wrong. You’re stealing my life from me.”
“I’m not stealing anything from you. Yuri grabbed your laptop. You can work from here.” I tip my head toward the office down the hall. “I’ll have my tech guy get you set up on the network.”
“There’s more to life than work,” she spits.
“My housekeeper will get your room set up for you. You’ll be very comfortable there, especially once your things arrive.”
“What happens if I say no?” she asks, desperately grasping at straws to get out of this.
“You try to leave,” I say, “and I will pick you up and bring you back. Don’t make me do it.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
She stares at me, throat tight, eyes bright with fury. The pulse at her neck hits a hard rhythm. She drops back to the sofa as if refusing to give me the satisfaction of force. It’s a victory, but it feels hollow.
“I won’t apologize for keeping you alive. You can kick and scream and act like a petulant child all you want. This is done. It’s happening.”
Her eyes flash, and she finally nods in agreement.
“I’ll have Marcus coordinate the move,” I say. “You choose what you want to take, and my guys will move it for you.”
She shakes her head. “I’ll pack my own things.”
“You’ll choose,” I say. “They’ll pack. That’s the offer.”
“Offer,” she repeats dryly. “It feels a lot like an order.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
She stands again and tests the distance between us with a single step. I don’t move. She exhales as if she just remembered an ugly truth about how the world works.
“If your men break any of my things, I’m charging you for it,” she grumbles.
“I’d expect nothing else.” I let out a wary sigh.
Yuri appears in the doorway like a ghost. He takes both of us in with a quick sweep and waits without a word.
“Watch her,” I tell him. “I’ll be ten minutes.”
He nods and slides to a spot where he can see the hall, the elevator, and the reflection in the glass. I know I can trust him to stop her if she tries to run away.
I walk back to my office. I pull out the card I’ve been carrying in my pocket the last few days, twirling it between my fingers as I take the burner phone I keep hidden in my drawer.
He answers on the second ring. “Agent Halloran.”
“It’s me,” I say, keeping my voice low.
I hear the rustle of papers and assume he’s moving to another location, as he always does when I call. Agent Halloran is my man inside the FBI. I’ve had him on the take for years, since I realized how valuable it would be to have someone keep an eye on any federal investigations.
“Are there any active or pending cases on me or Levcon?” I ask when I hear him settle. “Has anyone authorized interviews with my staff in the last seven days?”
There’s the sound of typing, and I wait while he searches his screen.
“No active Title Three,” he says slowly. “No probable cause orders. No field interviews scheduled for your domains.” He pauses. “There was a routine analytics sweep on the corporate side, but it passed last quarter without any red flags.”
That doesn’t make sense. A federal agent visited Mari. I have his fucking card in my hand right now.
“Can you run a name?” I ask. “Agent Graham Cole in the Manhattan office.”
“Not in my house,” he answers quickly, then there’s the sound of more typing. “There’s a Cole in Los Angeles on retirement counseling. No one here is using that name.”
“The card says Manhattan,” I say.
“Give me the phone number.”
I do.
He snorts. “That’s a public line. Nobody who calls that number is getting through to a human.”
“So no one is gathering intel on me?” I ask, as unease settles in my gut.
“Only your usual admirers,” he says. “Want me to pull anything?”
“No.” My voice stays flat. “Call me if a field office blinks in my direction.”
“You’ll get notice before a judge sees a form.”
I end the call and set the phone down. I pick up the card and turn it between my fingers. It’s a good forgery, I’ll give him that. It had me properly fooled, but now I realize that the stock is too glossy. The eagle’s eye is dead. The hotline uses hyphens, which federal printers avoid. The microline along the bottom is missing. I’m angry at myself for falling for this in the first place.