Chapter 4 - His jaw shifted.
A long pause.
Then Devlin reached into his pocket and produced her keys.
“I sent a man to your apartment 3 hours ago.”
Chantelle stared at them.
“He packed a bag for you.”
Devlin continued.
“The cat is at a secure veterinary boarding facility in Connecticut under another name.”
Her mouth opened.
“And I paid your rent in cash for 6 months.”
Chantelle looked from the keys to him.
The efficiency frightened her more than anything else.
He had taken her entire life apart and secured it while she slept.
“You went through my things.”
“I secured an asset.”
Devlin pocketed the keys.
“Drink some coffee. You look like a ghost.”
He walked toward a bank of monitors and dismissed the conversation.
Chantelle remained beside the sink.
She was safe.
Her cat was safe.
The rent was paid.
She had never felt more imprisoned.
The safe house had no windows.
Time stopped behaving normally.
The industrial lighting remained constant.
Chantelle began pacing.
1 complete circuit of the loft required 412 steps.
Approximately 48 hours passed after the attack.
Devlin barely slept.
He remained at the monitors, managing the war through burner phones, encrypted channels, and surveillance feeds.
Chantelle watched the machinery of his world.
He never yelled.
Never threw anything.
When he ordered retaliation or authorized someone’s death, his voice remained calm.
That absence of emotion was the most disturbing part.
Chantelle poured another cup of coffee.
Her 4th.
Caffeine did nothing except make her hands tremble.
She approached the desk.
“I need to do something.”
Devlin kept watching the surveillance screens.
“Read.”
“I did. Your books are all political biographies and military history.”
No reaction.
“I need something useful to do. I’m losing my mind.”
Devlin turned.
His stubble had thickened around the scar.
“This is not a vacation. Your job is to stay out of the way and remain alive.”
“I can cook.”
Chantelle pointed toward the unused kitchen.
“I’ve watched you live on protein bars and Scotch for 2 days. The refrigerator is full. Let me cook something.”
Devlin studied her.
He seemed to hear what was beneath the request.
A need for ordinary motion.
For something normal.
“Fine.”
He turned back.
“Do whatever you want. Don’t burn the place down.”
For the next hour, Chantelle gave herself entirely to the mechanical sequence of cooking.
Chopping.
Sautéing.
Simmering.
Garlic.
Onions.
Imported tomatoes.
A thick flank steak.
The work was physical and repetitive.
Her pulse finally slowed.
The smell of meat and garlic displaced the sterile odors of ozone and old coffee.
Chantelle plated the meal.
She carried it toward Devlin.
Pushed aside encrypted files and set the plate beside his keyboard.
“Eat.”
Devlin looked at her.
A tired trace of a smile appeared.
He took a bite.
Chewed.
“It’s good.”
“It’s better than good. It’s real food.”
Chantelle sat in a nearby chair with her knees drawn toward her chest.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
A truce built out of exhaustion and food settled over the room.
Then a burner phone vibrated.
Devlin answered without speaking.
As he listened, every trace of relaxation disappeared.
The mask returned.
His jaw tightened.
“Where?”
He listened.
“Burn the location. Fall back.”
Another pause.
“I’ll handle it.”
The call ended.
Devlin pushed the half-eaten plate away and stood.
“What happened?”
“Lucian moved.”
He went toward a locked steel cabinet.
“He didn’t attack territory.”
Devlin entered a code.
The doors opened.
Weapons filled the interior.
Chantelle’s stomach dropped.
“He went after my people.”
Devlin pulled on a tactical vest.
Magazines disappeared into its pouches.
“Where are you going?”
“To fix it.”
He lifted a matte-black rifle and checked the chamber.
“You’re leaving me here?”
Devlin looked at her.
Cold again.
“The door uses a timed electromagnetic lock. It will not open from either direction for 12 hours.”
Chantelle stared.
“You’ll be completely secure.”
“And if you don’t come back in 12 hours?”
The question stopped him.
If Devlin died, Chantelle would be locked beneath the city until the timer expired.
After that, anyone might come through the door.
Devlin looked at her properly.
He saw the fear.
He crossed the room and placed a scarred hand firmly on her shoulder.
“I will come back.”
Not comfort.
Certainty.
“Lock yourself in the bedroom. Do not open it until you hear my voice.”
He turned.
The deadbolts withdrew with heavy mechanical sounds.
Devlin stepped out.
The door shut behind him.
Silence swallowed the bunker.
Garlic and meat still hung in the air.
Normalcy already felt distant.
12 hours alone in a sealed bunker was enough to distort thought.
Chantelle scrubbed the kitchen island until her knuckles hurt.
Washed every dish.
Reorganized the pantry.
Anything to keep from calculating the odds.
If Devlin died, the lock would release at 8:00 a.m.
Then Lucian’s men might find the bunker.
They would not ask questions.
7 hours passed.
Then 9.
Chantelle eventually sat on the floor with her back against the steel door.
Her knees pressed to her chest.
She wore the oversized sweatpants.
The metal behind her radiated cold.
A digital clock above the server rack read 7:42 a.m.
18 minutes.
Her heart beat erratically.
A cast-iron skillet rested in her hands.
Ridiculous against rifles.
Still, she would not wait in the bedroom.
If someone entered, she intended to swing.
7:55.
5 minutes.
Chantelle thought of her cat.
The diner coffee.
The scar on Devlin’s neck.
The careful hand that touched her shoulder.
7:59.
Locks began releasing inside the door.
1 clunk.
Then another.
A pneumatic hiss.
Chantelle scrambled backward.
Both hands closed around the skillet.
The steel door opened.
A figure stood in the corridor light.
She raised the pan.
Devlin staggered across the threshold.
He did not move like himself.
He almost fell immediately, catching the wall with 1 hand.
His tactical vest was torn across the ribs.
His left arm hung uselessly.
Soot covered his face.
His gray eyes were unfocused.
He saw the skillet above Chantelle’s head.
A weak huff escaped him.
“Put the pan down.”
His voice barely carried.
“I’m not making eggs.”
He pushed away from the wall.
Took 1 unsteady step toward the island.
Collapsed.
His body struck the concrete heavily.
“Devlin!”
The skillet hit the floor.
Chantelle dropped beside him.
The metallic smell of fresh blood surrounded him.
She rolled him onto his back by the right shoulder.
He groaned.
“Look at me.”
She tapped his face.
His skin felt cold.
Sweat covered it.
“Vest.”
His right hand pulled weakly at the Velcro.
“Get it off.”
Chantelle ripped the straps open.
The ballistic plates came free.
She threw them aside.
His black shirt was soaked.
Chantelle dragged the fabric upward.
A long laceration cut across his left side below the ribs.
Not a gunshot.
Something jagged had ripped him deeply, as if broken glass or steel had dragged through the flesh.
Blood continued to escape.
“Oh God.”
Her stomach rolled.
“Kit.”
Devlin’s head moved weakly.
“Cabinet.”
Chantelle ran to the steel cabinet.
Brought the trauma kit back.
Opened it.
Gauze.
Pressure dressings.
Medical stapler.
Saline.
“What do I do?”
Her voice cracked.
“I don’t know how.”
Devlin forced his eyes open.
“Saline.”
He struggled for breath.
“Clean it. Pack it with gauze. Hard.”
Chantelle twisted the cap from the bottle with her teeth and poured.
Devlin’s body went rigid.
A strangled cry died in his throat.
“I’m sorry.”
Her hands shook.
“I’m sorry.”
May you like
“Don’t apologize.”
His jaw locked.
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