Chapter 8 - THE STAGING
At seven fifteen PM, a frantic emergency call was routed from the gatehouse line directly to VIPER Castellano’s private extension.
I made the call myself.
“Mr. Castellano!” I gasped into the receiver, forcing my voice to break with panic, making my breathing fast and shallow. “It’s Rosalind! Something’s wrong with Titan! He’s... he’s seizing! His heart rate is dropping!”
On the other end of the line, I heard the wet, raspy intake of VIPER’s breath.
“What did you say?” he growled.
“The wound... it’s infected!” I sobbed, putting on the performance of my life. “The tissue around the shoulder is necrotic! The microchip is overheating—the diagnostic light on his collar is flashing red! If he dies, the encryption will wipe!”
“Where are you?” VIPER demanded, the sound of his cane hitting the floor echoing through the receiver.
“I... I couldn't stay in the gatehouse! The security guards were acting strange! I brought him to the old boathouse by the south pier! Please... I need the medical kit from Dante’s study! I don't know how to stop the wipe sequence!”
“Stay where you are,” VIPER spat. “Do not touch the collar. I am coming down myself.”
He slammed the phone down.
I dropped the receiver, pulled off the emergency headset, and wiped a real bead of sweat from my forehead.
I was sitting on an overturned wooden crate inside the dim, cavernous interior of the old boathouse. Rain had begun to fall again, pattering loudly against the rotting wood shingles overhead. Water slapped rhythmically against the wooden pilings beneath the floorboards.
Titan was lying at my feet, perfectly calm, his dark eyes fixed on the sliding double doors fifty feet away. On his collar, a small red LED light—a simple bicycle safety light I had attached with electrical tape—flashed steadily in the darkness.
Dante stepped out from the shadows near the back of the boathouse. He was wearing a dark tactical vest over a black sweater, a silenced 9mm pistol secured in his shoulder holster.
“He took the bait,” I whispered.
“He’s desperate,” Dante said, stepping up beside me. He looked down at Titan, then at me. He reached out, his long fingers brushing a strand of wet hair away from my eyes. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the heavy firearm strapped to his chest.
“If anything goes wrong,” Dante said, his voice low and intense, “you take the ladder behind that net wall. It leads straight down to a small motorboat tied to the pier. The keys are in the ignition. You drive south toward the coast guard station and don't look back.”
“I’m not leaving you, Dante,” I said, meeting his gaze firmly.
“Rosalind—”
“I’m not leaving,” I repeated. “Titan won't obey the hold command if I’m not here. And you need him to hold.”
Dante looked at me for three long seconds. The air between us felt charged, thick with an unspoken weight that had been building since the moment I walked into his laundry room four days ago.
Slowly, without a word, Dante reached down, took my hand, and pressed a light kiss against the back of my knuckles.
“Then we finish this together,” he said.
A sudden flare of headlights cut through the dirty glass of the boathouse windows. Two vehicles were approaching down the unpaved coastal trail.
Dante melted back into the shadows of the high timber rafters, disappearing seamlessly into the dark.
May you like
I stood up, pulled my shoulders back, grabbed Titan’s lead, and waited.
The double doors of the boathouse were kicked open with a loud, splintering crash.
