Chapter 74 Ghost
"I feel like a tethered goat," I muttered, adjusting the collar of my blazer.
"You look like a very expensive, highly educated goat," Lonnie said, standing back to assess his work. "Now, remember, if you have to run, kick the shoes off. They're Louboutins, darling, but your life is worth slightly more."
It was 5:00 PM on Thursday. The sun was beginning its descent, casting long, dramatic shadows across the city. We were in my temporary office at the estate.
Lonnie had come over to "dress" me for the trap. He claimed that if I was going to be bait, I needed to look the part of the untouchable lead architect. He had brought a tailored black pantsuit, a crisp white silk blouse, and the aforementioned stilettos.
It was armor of a different kind.
"Are you sure the leak worked?" I asked, checking my reflection in the mirror. I looked pale. The bold red lipstick Lonnie had insisted on only accentuated the dark circles under my eyes.
"I am a master of the whispered secret," Lonnie sniffed, fixing a stray hair that had escaped my low chignon. "I mentioned your 'solo, after-hours inspection' to Agatha’s favorite society reporter at lunch yesterday. By dinner, it was gospel truth among the elite. And since your stalker seems to have his ear to the ground..."
"He’ll know," I finished, my stomach doing a slow, nervous roll.
The door opened, and Tristan walked in, followed closely by Silas.
Tristan stopped dead when he saw me. His eyes swept over the tailored suit, the red lipstick, the sharp, professional lines. For a second, the appreciation flared—hot and undeniable. Then, he remembered why I was dressed like this, and the heat vanished, replaced by the grim mask of the warlord preparing for battle.
"The tactical teams are in position," Silas reported, tapping the earpiece coiled around his ear. "Four men in the lighting rigs above the stage. Six men in the wings, concealed behind the old curtains. Two more on the loading dock roof."
Tristan didn't look at Silas. He kept his eyes fixed on me.
"And the explosives?" Tristan asked, his voice flat.
"Wired and ready," Silas confirmed. "If he tries to bypass the stage and use the lower maintenance tunnels, we bring the ceiling down to block him."
I shivered, pulling the blazer tighter around myself. "Are we sure the building won't completely collapse?"
"It's a controlled charge, Ms. Hayes," Silas assured me. "Just enough to drop the structural supports in that specific corridor. It'll block his path and deafen him, but it won't bring down the auditorium."
Tristan finally looked away from me, turning to Silas. "I want an open comms channel the entire time. If she breathes differently, I want to hear it."
"Yes, sir."
"Leave us," Tristan ordered.
Silas nodded and exited, gesturing for Lonnie to follow. Lonnie squeezed my hand tightly before slipping out the door, his usual flamboyant energy subdued by the gravity of the situation.
Tristan and I were alone.
He walked over to me. He didn't touch me. He just stood close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body, smelling the sharp, clean scent of his cologne. He was wearing a tactical vest over a black long-sleeved shirt, the dark fabric emphasizing the breadth of his chest.
"You don't have to do this," he said. His voice was a low, rough murmur.
"We've been through this, Tristan."
"I know. But I'm asking you, one last time. Let me call it off."
I looked up into his eyes. The desperation was back, bleeding through the cracks in his armor. He hated feeling powerless. He hated watching me walk into danger.
"I can't," I said softly. "I have to know it's over. I have to know I can walk out my front door without looking over my shoulder."
He clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking violently near his ear.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black object. It looked like a heavy pen.
"Take this," he said, pressing it into my palm.
"What is it?"
"A high-voltage stun baton," he said, his fingers closing tightly over mine to ensure I had a good grip. "It's concealed to look like a laser pointer. If he gets past the snipers. If he gets past the teams in the wings. If he gets to you before I do..."
He stopped, swallowing hard.
"You aim for the center of his chest and you press the button," Tristan instructed, his voice deathly serious. "Don't hesitate. Don't ask him questions. You drop him."
I looked at the heavy, black cylinder in my hand. It was cold. Lethal.
"I'll drop him," I promised, slipping it into the inner pocket of my blazer.
Tristan let out a slow, shaky breath. He reached out, finally touching me, his large hands cupping my face. His thumbs stroked my cheekbones, careful not to smudge the red lipstick.
"I'll be right there," he whispered, pressing his forehead against mine. "I'll be in the wings, ten feet away. I won't take my eyes off you."
"I know."
He kissed me. It wasn't rough or demanding. It was a lingering, desperate press of lips, a silent prayer against the coming darkness.
He pulled back, his eyes searching mine.
"Let's go catch a ghost," he said.