Chapter 242 Taking Me On The Desk

Chapter 242 Taking Me On The Desk
"A failed corporate robbery," Vance stated. His voice carried zero inflection. He spoke the official narrative into existence. "Industrial espionage. A rival firm hired outside contractors to steal proprietary logistics data. Your private security team intercepted them."

I kept my hands pressed against Sebastian’s ribs. The hot blood seeped through my fingers. "Yes," I agreed. "They broke into the server room. They failed."

Two medics knelt beside Sebastian. One man opened a thick black trauma kit.

"Move your hands," the medic instructed me.

I did not want to let go. I looked at Sebastian. His skin looked pale in the harsh flashlight beams. His chest rose in shallow, uneven intervals.

"Let them work," Sebastian rasped. He placed his bloody hand over mine. He guided my fingers away from his torn flesh.

The medics cut Sebastian’s ruined white dress shirt. They exposed the deep laceration Victor left behind. They worked with rapid, practiced movements. The lead medic applied a chemical agent to the wound. The sharp smell of antiseptic masked the scent of the rain.

Sebastian gritted his teeth. The muscles in his neck strained. He refused to make a sound.

"We need to move him," the lead medic said to Vance. "He requires proper surgery. He lost a significant amount of blood."

"No," Sebastian grunted. He pushed the medic’s hands away. He forced himself to sit up. The movement tore a sharp, jagged groan from his throat.

"You stay on the floor," the medic ordered.

"I stay in my building," Sebastian countered. He looked past the medic. He focused his gaze on Vance. "Give me the status of my men."

Vance reached into his dark jacket. He pulled out a small tactical radio.

"Your lead enforcer is stable," Vance reported. "Bob took three rounds. My team stabilized him in the hallway. We placed him on a stretcher. They are transporting him to the secure wing of the city hospital right now. He will require surgery, but he possesses a strong pulse."

"The hired mercenaries?" I asked.

"Six dead in the lower stairwells," Vance stated. He did not look at a notepad. He memorized the numbers. "Four dead outside this set of doors. The remaining fighters surrendered. My men found them trapped between floor forty and floor fifty. The power outage disoriented them. The frozen bank accounts broke their resolve. They dropped their rifles. They are sitting in federal transit vans in the underground garage."

Victor brought a dozen trained killers to end us. None of them accomplished the goal.

"They face federal charges," Vance continued. "Armed trespassing. Attempted theft. Assault. They will spend decades in a concrete cell. They will not speak your name. They do not know your name. They only know the anonymous shell company that hired them for the hit."

Vance looked down at Victor’s body.

"And this one," Vance said. "He broke out of a federal penitentiary. He stole a transport vehicle. He murdered the guards in the solitary confinement block. He died resisting arrest. My task force tracked him here and engaged him in a firefight."

"Bag him," Vance ordered his men.

The agents lifted the black bag. They carried it out of the office. They took the physical proof of the struggle. They left the broken glass and the splintered wood behind.

"My team will clear the bodies from the hallway," Vance said. He turned his flashlight toward the ruined doorway. "We will scrub the lobby. We will remove the armored truck. By sunrise, this building will look like a crime scene under federal jurisdiction. You will need to file a substantial insurance claim for the doors and the windows."

"The firm handles the damage," I said.

Vance nodded. He possessed no more business in this room. He turned away. He walked out of the office. The bright beam of his flashlight faded into the dark corridor.

I looked at Sebastian. He sat on the floor, leaning against the base of the broken bookshelves. The thick white bandage wrapped around his torso stood out in the dim light. His face looked battered and bruised, but his gray eyes held a sharp, intense focus. He watched me.

I took his hands. I wiped the dried blood from his knuckles. I cleaned the small cuts on his fingers. I focused on the mundane, repetitive task. It grounded my mind. It kept my thoughts from spiraling into the trauma of the past few hours.

"He is gone," I said. My voice sounded quiet in the large room.

"Vance took the body. The surviving men are in custody. The offshore accounts sit empty."

Sebastian reached out. He placed his clean right hand under my chin. He tilted my face up.

He studied my features. He looked at the blood drying on my cheeks. He looked at the dark stains soaking the cuffs of my sweater.

"You stepped into the violence," he murmured. "You did not look away."

"I belong here," I said. "I belong with you."

The emergency lights flickered.

A low hum vibrated through the floorboards. The main power grid rebooted. The backup generators kicked in, flooding the building with electricity.

The soft, warm recessed lights of the executive office illuminated the destruction. The true scale of the damage became visible. The heavy mahogany doors lay in splinters. The leather sofas leaked white stuffing. Bullet holes covered the plaster walls. The expensive carpet soaked up the rain and the blood.

It looked like a disaster zone. It looked perfect. It was the physical manifestation of our victory.

Sebastian pushed himself up from the floor. He gritted his teeth against the sharp pain in his ribs. He stood tall. He looked down at me.

I stood up. I faced him.

The danger passed. The adrenaline in my system needed a new outlet. The raw, unfiltered reality of our survival crashed over me. We beat death. We beat the law. We beat the past.

Sebastian looked around the ruined office. He looked at the shattered windows. He looked at the broken desk.

His gaze returned to me. The gray eyes turned pitch black. The protector vanished. The civilized businessman disappeared.

The man standing in front of me wanted one thing.

"The sun comes up in an hour," Sebastian said. His voice dropped to a rough, gravelly pitch. The sound vibrated in my chest.

"Yes," I breathed.

"The building is empty."

"Yes."

He stepped forward. He did not care about the broken glass crunching beneath his boots. He did not care about the bleeding wounds or the pain in his ribs.

He reached for the hem of my ruined sweater.