Chapter 5 - THE MAN INSIDE THE FAMILY
Grant reached Rebecca's house in nineteen minutes.
The front door was unlocked.
That alone was wrong.
Daniel Collins had spent ten years complaining about Grant's security habits while quietly copying most of them.
Cameras.
Motion sensors.
Reinforced doors.
Rebecca called it ridiculous.
Grant now understood it had never been paranoia.
It had been concealment.
“Rebecca!”
No answer.
Nico moved through the house with two men.
Grant headed upstairs.
Ethan's bedroom was empty.
The bridge project sat half-completed across the desk.
Grant stopped.
Wooden sticks.
Wire.
A small handwritten note.
UNCLE GRANT — LOAD TEST SUNDAY.
His throat tightened.
He had promised.
Then chosen Italy.
Grant turned away.
“Clear!” Nico shouted downstairs.
Nobody.
Grant entered Daniel's office.
Locked filing cabinet.
Two laptops gone.
Desktop wiped.
A photograph of Rebecca and Ethan still sat on the desk.
Everything looked normal.
Too normal.
Nico entered.
“Neighbor saw Daniel leave around four this morning.”
“With Rebecca?”
“Unknown.”
“Ethan?”
“School says he never arrived.”
Grant's blood went cold.
“Find them.”
Already calling.
Margaret arrived ten minutes later despite every instruction to stay home.
“Where is my daughter?”
Grant turned.
“I don't know.”
She slapped him.
Hard.
Every man in the room looked away.
Grant did not move.
Margaret had never struck him in his life.
“You brought this into our family.”
“Mom.”
“You brought Sloan to dinner.”
Grant's face changed.
“What?”
Margaret's eyes filled with fury.
“You brought that woman into Hannah's home three months ago at the charity planning meeting. Hannah served her coffee.”
Grant remembered.
Sloan had attended as a donor representative.
Hannah had been polite.
Warm.
Had offered Sloan lemon cake.
Grant felt physically sick.
Margaret continued.
“And then you took her to Italy.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Her voice broke.
“Hannah called me every morning after Walter's heart procedure. She took Rebecca to chemotherapy appointments when Daniel claimed work was too busy.”
Grant froze.
“Chemotherapy?”
Margaret stared.
“You didn't know?”
“No.”
His own sister had undergone treatment for early cervical cancer eighteen months earlier.
Hannah knew.
Margaret knew.
Walter knew.
Grant had not.
“How?”
“She asked us not to tell you because you were dealing with the union crisis.”
Grant turned away.
Of course.
Hannah had protected him again.
Protected his concentration.
Protected Rebecca's privacy.
Protected the family.
While Grant mistook ignorance for control.
Nico's phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed.
“Ethan's phone just came online.”
Grant moved.
“Where?”
“Yonkers.”
They found the phone in a trash bin behind a gas station.
No Ethan.
No Rebecca.
One security camera showed Daniel's SUV entering.
Another showed a different vehicle leaving.
Black Cadillac.
Fake plates.
Grant stared at the footage.
“Mercer.”
Nico nodded.
Grant's phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
A man's voice spoke.
“Grant Whitmore.”
“Damian.”
Soft laughter.
“So Sloan talks too much after all.”
“Where are my sister and nephew?”
“Safe.”
“If you touch them—”
“You sound like your father.”
Grant forced himself to breathe.
“What do you want?”
“You already know.”
“Ports.”
“Three terminals. Complete access. Forty-eight hours.”
“And my family?”
“One family member for each signature.”
Grant became still.
“Rebecca and Ethan are two.”
“Yes.”
“Who's the third?”
Damian laughed.
Grant's stomach dropped.
“You don't have Hannah.”
“Do I need her?”
Grant said nothing.
“The interesting thing about frightened women,” Damian continued, “is that they usually run toward people they trust.”
Walter.
Grant turned toward Nico and silently pointed at his father's name.
Nico began dialing.
No answer.
Damian continued.
“Your wife believes your father saved her.”
“He did.”
“Perhaps.”
The call disconnected.
Nico looked up.
“Walter isn't answering.”
Margaret went pale.
Grant called.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
He ran outside.
Walter's vehicle was located twenty minutes later on the shoulder of Interstate 87.
Driver door open.
Keys inside.
Blood on the steering wheel.
Not much.
Enough.
Grant stood beside the car in the rain while police processed the scene.
Nico approached.
“Traffic camera shows another car stopping.”
“Plate?”
“Stolen.”
“Who got out?”
Nico turned the tablet.
Daniel Collins.
Grant stared.
Rebecca's husband stepped from the stolen car.
Walter exited his own vehicle.
They argued.
Then Daniel struck him.
Another man helped force Walter into the back seat.
Grant's hands curled.
“He gave them my father.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“We found transfers into Daniel's accounts.”
“How much?”
“Almost nine hundred thousand over two years.”
Grant looked toward the highway.
Daniel had not simply betrayed them.
He had sold them slowly.
Piece by piece.
Schedules.
Security protocols.
Family locations.
Maybe even Hannah's medical records.
Grant closed his eyes.
For years he had suspected rivals.
Employees.
Police.
Enemies.
He had never looked closely at the people seated at Sunday dinner.
Because Hannah made that table feel safe.
A text arrived.
Unknown sender.
A photograph.
Walter sat tied to a chair.
Blood at his temple.
Alive.
Beside him was Rebecca.
Ethan.
All three.
Grant zoomed in.
His nephew looked terrified.
Under the image:
48 HOURS.
Then another message.
YOUR WIFE IS SMARTER THAN YOU.
Grant's heartbeat changed.
A second photograph arrived.
Hannah.
Leaving Lena Ortiz's building.
Taken from across the street.
Timestamped yesterday.
Damian had known where she was.
Grant called Walter's federal contact through a number Nico had pulled from Walter's files.
“Move Hannah.”
The agent refused to confirm she existed.
Grant nearly lost control.
“Mercer found her original location.”
Silence.
Then:
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
The agent ended the call.
Three hundred miles away, Hannah sat inside a small lakeside safehouse in Vermont while Lena checked her blood pressure.
Too high.
Again.
“You need rest.”
“I've been sitting for twelve hours.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
Hannah rubbed her stomach.
The baby had been unusually quiet that morning.
A federal agent entered.
“Mrs. Whitmore, we have to relocate.”
“Why?”
No answer.
“Agent Miller.”
“Your location may have been compromised.”
Hannah stood too quickly.
Pain tightened across her abdomen.
She grabbed the table.
Lena rushed toward her.
“Hannah?”
Another contraction.
Too early.
“No.”
Lena checked the time.
Thirty seconds.
Then it eased.
Hannah breathed.
“Braxton Hicks.”
“Maybe.”
Another began four minutes later.
Lena's face changed.
“Hannah, we need a hospital.”
Agent Miller touched his radio.
The lights went out.
Every room.
Dark.
A second later, a gunshot shattered the silence outside.
Lena grabbed Hannah.
“Down!”
Another shot.
Then shouting.
Agent Miller pushed them toward the rear hallway.
“Move!”
Hannah's son kicked violently.
Pain ripped across her abdomen.
Warm liquid ran down her legs.
Lena looked down.
Her face went white.
“Hannah.”
“What?”
“Your water just broke.”
Seven months pregnant.
In a compromised safehouse.
May you like
With armed men outside.
And Grant, hundreds of miles away, had no idea his wife had just gone into premature labor.
