Chapter 149
Unknown POV
The message came through at 9:47 PM, encrypted and brief:
Target confirmed in custody. Execute Protocol B.
The man—Vincent, though that wasn't his real name—read it twice. Then he deleted it, watching the characters dissolve into digital void.
He'd been with Silverpine for six years. Long enough to know Marcus Grant's operational style. Long enough to understand what "Protocol B" meant.
If I go down, she goes down with me.
Vincent had heard Marcus say it himself, three weeks ago in that Geneva safehouse. The man's face had been calm, almost serene, as he'd laid out the contingency.
"She thinks she's won by going public. She thinks putting me in a cell will end this." Marcus had smiled—that cold, empty smile Vincent had seen him use on targets before. "Make sure she understands: there is no winning. There is no after. If I burn, she burns."
Protocol B was simple: Kill Lena Grant. No warnings, no messages, no theatrical gestures. Just eliminate her, preferably in a way that looked like an accident.
Vincent pulled up the tracking data on his second phone. Lena Grant's apartment building glowed on the screen—stationary signal, surrounded by a dense cluster of security indicators. Three-man detail at minimum, probably more inside. Kenneth Reynolds had locked her down tight after the press conference.
A direct approach was suicide.
But there was a second signal. Diana Clarke, Lena's law partner. Currently in motion, heading west on Merchants Boulevard.
Vincent zoomed in on the route. If Clarke was heading where he thought she was heading—back to the office to grab files before meeting the team—she'd pass through Fifth and Merchants.
He ran the timing calculations. The light there had a forty-five second red cycle. If he timed it right, if he hit her hard enough...
Lena would come. She'd leave that protected apartment, rush to the hospital. And there—away from Reynolds' security net, distracted by grief and guilt—she'd be vulnerable.
Vincent started the engine of the black SUV. Checked the reinforced front bumper one more time.
Clarke was collateral damage. A means to an end.
Marcus didn't care who else got hurt, as long as Lena Grant ended up dead.
Vincent merged into traffic, keeping three cars back from Diana's sedan.
The light at Fifth and Merchants turned yellow up ahead.
He pressed down on the accelerator.
Lena's POV
The call came at 3:47 PM the next day.
I watched Rowan's face as he listened to Kenneth on speaker, his expression carefully neutral. But I'd learned to read the small things—the way his shoulders dropped half an inch, the slight release of tension around his eyes.
"Confirmation from Interpol," Kenneth's voice was crisp, professional. "Marcus is still at the Geneva location. Arrest warrant's been signed. Swiss authorities move in at 2100 hours local time."
Seven hours. In seven hours, my father would be in custody.
I waited for the relief to come. Instead, I felt... nothing. Just the same cold weight that had been sitting in my chest since the press conference.
"Thank you, Kenneth." Rowan ended the call, turning to me. "It's happening."
"Yeah." My voice came out flat. "It is."
Diana stood from where she'd been reviewing documents at my dining table, a rare smile crossing her face. "We should celebrate. Or at least... acknowledge this. When they confirm the arrest—" She glanced at Jack, who'd been setting up additional security monitors. "Maybe we could all grab a drink?"
Jack looked up, and something shifted in his expression when his eyes landed on Diana. "I'm buying," he said, his tone gentler than usual.
Emily squeezed my shoulder. "What do you say, Lena? A quiet drink with the people who got you here?"
I surprised myself by nodding. "Okay. Yes."
But first—
"I need to go to the office," I said, the thought crystallizing as I spoke. "There's a file I need. Vivian's divorce agreement. I should have it before Marcus is formally charged."
Rowan straightened immediately. "I'll drive you."
"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. I softened it: "I can do these small things. Go to my office. Come back. Without—" I gestured vaguely at the security monitors, the men stationed outside.
I saw him struggle with it, the old instinct to override my decision warring with his new commitment to respect my choices.
"David will maintain perimeter surveillance," he finally said.
Diana closed her laptop. "I'll drive you. I need to pick up files from the office anyway—might as well make it a joint trip."
Relief flickered through me. Diana felt safer than Rowan's hovering, safer than going alone. "Thank you."
Rowan's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "David will follow at a distance."
Twenty minutes later, I was sliding into Diana's sedan, the normalcy of it almost surreal. No armed convoy. No Rowan radiating protective tension in the driver's seat. Just Diana, checking her mirrors with practiced efficiency, pulling into afternoon traffic.
"You know," Diana said as we merged onto Merchants Boulevard, "I haven't taken a real vacation in two years."
I glanced at her. "What would you do? If you took one?"
"Sleep." She smiled slightly. "Sleep until I wake up naturally. No alarms, no emergency calls, no—" She gestured at her phone. "Any of this."
"Sounds perfect."
"What about you? After all this is over?"
After. The word felt foreign. I watched the city slide past my window—ordinary people living ordinary lives, unaware that seven hours from now, my father would be dragged from a Geneva safehouse in handcuffs.
"I don't know if it ever really ends," I said quietly.
Diana's expression sobered. "It will. Marcus is finished."
I wanted to believe her. But something in my chest remained tight, waiting for the other shoe to drop.