Chapter 2 - The Sky Above Queens
I threw off the towel and pulled on a pair of black leggings, an oversized grey sweater, and my heavy winter coat with frantic, clumsy movements. Tears stung my eyes, but I forced myself to breathe through my nose, remembering the technician’s calm words from two hours ago: The heartbeat is strong.
When I unlocked and pulled open the door, two massive, broad-shouldered men in impeccably tailored dark suits waited beneath the flickering, yellow hallway light. The man on the right had a thin silver scar running from his ear to his jawline, while the other held a sleek leather duffel bag.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, holding my paring knife pointed uselessly at his chest.
The scarred man didn't even look at the six-inch blade. He simply held out his hand, picked the knife out of my grip as if taking a toy from a child, and tossed it onto my sofa.
“Upstairs, Ms. Reynolds,” he said.
“Upstairs?” I echoed. “There’s nothing upstairs except the roof.”
They didn't answer with words. They simply formed a tight wedge around me and escorted me up the narrow concrete staircase leading to the building's emergency exit.
Rain blew violently across the flat gravel roof of the apartment building. The late-September wind whipped my hair across my face, stinging my cheeks. Standing in the center of the roof, hovering five feet above the brick chimneys where no aircraft should have ever been, was a matte-black luxury helicopter. Its massive rotor blades cut through the storm, gathering speed and roaring with a deafening, chest-vibrating thrum.
Two searchlights on the belly of the craft lit up the rain, turning the falling water into sheets of liquid silver.
As one of the men pulled open the heavy side door of the aircraft, my phone vibrated twice in my coat pocket. I pulled it out with cold, numb fingers.
Mark stole two million dollars and an encrypted drive containing names that could ruin powerful men across three states.
A second message followed instantly:
If he hid them with you, everyone hunting him will come for your child next.
The scarred man took my arm firmly, helping me step up into the warm, leather-scented cabin of the helicopter. The door slammed shut behind us, cutting the roaring thunder of the engine down to a muffled hum.
The aircraft lifted off into the storm, tilting sharply as the streetlights of Queens dissolved into a blurry grid of glowing gold far below.
Sitting across from me on a wide, cream-colored leather bench was a man in his late thirties. He wore a crisp dark suit over a charcoal shirt, his dark hair neatly combed back, and his jawline sharp as carved marble. His pale blue eyes were fixed entirely on me—cold, calculating, and unreadable.
May you like
He held a glass of scotch in one hand, while his other hand rested casually on a silver-headed walking stick.
“Miss Reynolds,” he said, his voice smooth and remarkably deep, easily cutting through the low whine of the turbine. “I am Dante Castellano. I believe you have something that belongs to me.”
