Chapter 4 - The Traitor’s Blueprint
We emerged into the carriage house garage, the air thick with the smell of gasoline and old dust. The matte-black armored SUV sat waiting in the shadows. Claire moved with terrifying efficiency, clearing the corners of the garage before signaling us forward.
I loaded Ava into the back seat, laying her across the leather while Harper huddled beside her, holding Emma tightly in her lap.
“Keys,” Claire demanded, holding out her hand.
“I’m driving,” I countered.
“Your knuckles are split to the bone, and your adrenaline is peaking,” Claire said softly, her hazel eyes locking onto mine in the dim light. “I am a trained evasive pursuit driver. You need your hands free to return fire if we’re intercepted. Give me the keys, Elias.”
She was right. I tossed her the fob.
Claire slid behind the wheel, hitting the ignition. The V8 engine roared to life with a low, menacing growl. She hit the garage door opener, and before the wooden panels had fully raised, she dropped the SUV into gear and tore out into the rainy Chicago night.
We blasted down the private alleyway, smashing through a wooden fence to avoid the main gate where Marcus’s men were undoubtedly waiting. The rain battered the windshield, obscuring the city lights as Claire navigated the slick, treacherous streets with impossible precision.
“Where are we going?” I asked, keeping my weapon trained on the side mirror, watching for headlights.
“I have a safehouse,” Claire said, her eyes fixed on the road. “An old black-site apartment in the industrial district. It’s off the grid, registered under a dead alias. Nobody knows about it. Not even your men.”
“You kept a black-site apartment while working as a maid?”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Old habits die hard, Mr. Vale. When you’ve lived my life, you always keep a backdoor open.”
In the back seat, Ava let out a soft groan. The painkillers were wearing off.
“We need medical supplies,” I said, turning back to check on my daughter. Her face was dangerously pale. “And we need guns. Marcus controls the armories. He controls the bank accounts. By sunrise, he’ll put a bounty on my head so high that every mercenary in the Midwest will be hunting us.”
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“Let them hunt,” Claire said, her voice dropping into a deadly, velvet whisper. She took a sharp turn, the tires squealing against the wet asphalt. “They think they’re hunting a rich mob boss and a helpless maid. They have no idea they just kicked a hornet’s nest.”
I stared at her profile illuminated by the passing streetlights. The quiet, subservient woman who used to bring me coffee in the mornings was entirely gone. In her place was a warrior. And God help me, I was utterly mesmerized.
