Chapter 3 - The Denver Extraction
The sound of automatic gunfire crackling through the desk speaker sent a surge of adrenaline through my veins that drowned out every lingering trace of fear.
I didn't think. I didn't negotiate.
I stepped across the short distance separating me from Damon Voss, grabbed his silk lapels with both hands, and slammed his head back into the mahogany bookcase with enough force to send three heavy leather volumes crashing to the floor.
Damon gasped, his eyes going wide with shock, but before he could react, my right hand came up, locking around his throat, cutting off his windpipe.
“Call them off,” I growled, my face inches from his. “Order your men in Denver to stand down right now, or I will break your neck before Grant’s security team can pull me off you.”
Grant moved instantly, but he didn't grab me. Instead, he stepped between us and his mother, placing himself in a tactical position where he could watch both his uncle and me.
“Celeste, wait!” Grant commanded crisply. “Killing him doesn't stop the squad in Denver. They are operating on a standing contract. Even if he dies, the contract stays active until the target is eliminated or the contractor cancels it through an encrypted channel.”
I tightened my grip slightly, feeling the violent pulse hammering in Damon’s throat. “Then make him open the channel.”
Damon choked, his face turning a deep, dangerous shade of red. He reached weakly into his inner coat pocket, pulling out a second, smaller satellite phone—a military-grade device with an encrypted keypad.
I released his throat just enough to let him breathe. He slumped against the bookcase, coughing violently, his hand shaking as he unlocked the phone.
“Speak,” Damon rasped into the receiver, his voice horse. “Cancel the contract on the Denver target. Code authorization Alpha-Nine-Nine.”
A cold, mechanical voice replied over the phone’s tiny speaker. “Negative, Unit One. Authorization Alpha-Nine-Nine is overridden by Executive Order. The target carries the primary archive. Termination is non-negotiable.”
The line went dead with a flat, metallic tone.
Damon stared at the phone, his face draining of all color. “What... what do you mean, overridden?”
“You idiot,” Grant spat, stepping forward and yanking the satellite phone out of his uncle’s hand. “You sold out to the Sinaloa syndicate, didn't you? You gave them master override authority on your own hits!”
“They promised... they promised me protection from the federal audit!” Damon stammered, looking genuinely terrified for the first time. “They said once the Rowan girls were dead, the hard drive would never surface!”
“They lied to you,” I said, my voice dropping into a deadly calm. “They don't want the hard drive destroyed. They want it for themselves so they can blackmail the entire Voss empire.”
Grant slammed his fist onto the mahogany desk, his mind moving at lightspeed. He grabbed his main desk console and keyed in a direct line to his private airfield.
“Captain Reynolds!” Grant shouted into the receiver. “Prep the Gulfstream G650 on Runway 4! Fuel it for a direct flight to Denver Centennial! I want two armed tactical teams on board in five minutes!”
He looked at me, his dark grey eyes fierce and unblinking. “Rowan, you coming?”
“Try stopping me,” I said.
Grant turned to his four waiting security guards. “Lock Damon in the subterranean holding cell beneath the casino cage. Stripped of all communications, no visitors, no calls. If he tries to move, break his legs. Mother, go to your private suite and lock the doors. My personal guards will stand outside.”
Lenora bowed her head, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. “Grant... bring Elias’s daughter back alive. Please. We owe that family a debt we can never repay.”
“I intend to,” Grant said.
Thirty seconds later, Grant and I were sprinting through the underground service tunnels beneath the resort, heading toward his private subterranean garage.
The contrast was surreal. Ten minutes ago, I had been wiping floors in a dirty canvas apron; now, I was rushing toward an armored black Bentley alongside the billionaire casino tycoon I had just put flat on his back in front of three hundred people.
Grant threw me the keys as we reached the sleek black vehicle. “You know how to drive fast?”
I snatched the keys out of the air, sliding into the driver’s seat while he jumped into the passenger side. “I’ve spent eleven years running from men like your uncle, Voss. I know how to do everything fast.”
I fired the twin-turbo V12 engine, rammed the transmission into gear, and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The heavy armored vehicle roared up the concrete exit ramp, bursting out into the flashing neon lights and cool night air of the Las Vegas Strip at eighty miles an hour.
As I wove through the late-night traffic toward the private airport, Grant reached under his seat and pulled out a heavy pelican case. He popped the latches, revealing two black custom 9mm handguns and six spare magazines.
He held one out to me.
I looked at the firearm, then kept my hands locked at ten and two on the steering wheel. “I don't use guns.”
Grant raised an eyebrow, watching the speed indicator climb to one hundred and five miles an hour as we cleared the main strip. “You put a six-foot-two man on his back in two seconds flat, but you don't use guns?”
“Jonah Mercer taught me that guns make people sloppy,” I said, my eyes glued to the highway ahead. “A gun relies on bullets. A body relies on leverage. Leverage never runs out of ammunition.”
May you like
Grant let out a short, incredulous laugh, setting the weapon on his lap. “Who the hell was Jonah Mercer?”
“The man who saved my life after your uncle murdered my father,” I answered coldly. “And the man who made sure I would be ready when Damon finally found me.”
