Chapter 2 - SHADOWS IN THE KITCHEN
The safe house kitchen smelled of stale coffee, damp wool, and the faint, coppery tang of dried blood.
Gabriel stood by the scarred laminate counter, staring down at a burner where a small pot of water was coming to a rolling boil. Outside, the storm had settled into a steady, miserable downpour, drumming a relentless rhythm against the rusted gutters.
The heavy oak door swung open, and Mason stepped inside, shaking rain off his leather jacket like a wet hound. He tossed a set of encrypted tactical radios onto the table before pulling out a wooden chair and collapsing into it with a groan.
“We got eyes on Cross’s primary shipping depot off North Avenue,” Mason reported, rubbing his bruised jaw. “His core group is holed up there waiting for confirmation on the boy. They think we’re still looking for them on the south side.”
Gabriel didn't look up from the boiling water. He was pouring chamomile tea into a chipped ceramic mug with slow, mechanical precision. “How many men?”
“Twenty, maybe twenty-five. Heavily armed. They’ve got automatic rifles and reinforced doors. It’s going to be a bloodbath if we go in through the front.”
“We’re not going through the front,” Gabriel said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “We’re going through the roof and the loading bays simultaneously. I want every single exit sealed within ten minutes. No survivors who carry a weapon.”
Mason nodded once. In their line of work, mercy was a luxury reserved for the dead. “And the girl?”
Gabriel paused, the ceramic mug half-filled with steaming water. He looked toward the darkened hallway that led to the living room where Claire was still sleeping.
“She’s waking up,” Gabriel said quietly.
Just as the words left his mouth, a soft, muffled sound drifted down the hall—a sharp gasp of pain, followed by the frantic rustle of blankets and the sudden, terrified wail of baby Eli waking up in a strange room.
Gabriel set the mug down instantly and strode out of the kitchen, his long strides eating up the hallway floor.
When he pushed open the door to the living room, the scene was chaotic.
Claire was sitting bolt upright on the floral sofa, her chest heaving as if she had just surfaced from the bottom of a deep lake. Her right hand was pressed hard against her ribs, her breath catching in a ragged hitch as a wave of searing pain shot through her torso. Her tortoiseshell glasses were lying cracked on the rug, and her hair was tangled into a wild, dark bird’s nest around her shoulders.
Baby Eli, startled by her abrupt movement, was screaming at the top of his lungs, his little face turning bright red as he kicked his legs against the ruins of her coat.
“Shh, shh, shh—Eli, hey, I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Claire choked out, her voice raspy, bruised, and frantic as she tried to bounce the baby against her chest despite her injured ribs. She didn't realize where she was. Her eyes were wide, darting wildly around the unfamiliar room, searching for the shadows, looking for the men with guns.
“Claire,” Gabriel said softly, raising his hands palms-up as he stepped into the light of the floor lamp. “Stop moving. You’re safe.”
Claire flinched violently at the sound of his voice, her head snapping around. When she saw Gabriel standing there in his soaked, charcoal suit—towering, imposing, and entirely real—her breath caught in her throat.
“Mr. Moretti—I mean, Mr. Kane,” she stammered, her voice cracking as she tried to scramble backward against the sofa cushions, instinctively shielding Eli with her body. “The... the baby. They took him from the car, I had to—I had to get him back, I swear I didn't mean to—my car broke down, it wasn't supposed to happen—”
“Claire.” Gabriel closed the distance between them with agonizing slowness, making sure not to startle her further. He knelt down beside the sofa, his gray eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that cut straight through her panic. “Look at me.”
She stopped scrambling. Her chest rose and fell in jagged, painful gasps as she stared down into his face.
“Eli is right here,” Gabriel murmured, pointing gently toward the baby. “He’s safe. You brought him home. You did it.”
Claire blinked, the fierce, defensive glare in her eyes slowly dissolving into a well of exhaustion. The adrenaline that had kept her upright for twelve hours, that had driven her to beat a grown man with a fire extinguisher and drive twenty-eight miles through a blizzard with cracked ribs, finally ran dry.
Her shoulders slumped forward. The strength drained out of her limbs in a single, heavy wave.
As her eyes rolled back, her body went completely limp, sliding sideways off the cushion.
Gabriel moved with terrifying speed. Before she could hit the floor, his strong arms caught her, scooping her fragile, bruised frame against his chest while his other hand instinctively cradled baby Eli, keeping the child safe and secure between them.
He pulled her close, feeling how terribly light she was, how frail she felt beneath the ruined clothes.
“Mason,” Gabriel called out sharply over his shoulder.
May you like
Mason appeared in the doorway instantly, a first-aid kit in hand. “Is she—?”
“She passed out,” Gabriel interrupted, his voice tight as he carefully lifted Claire into his arms, carrying her down the hall toward the master bedroom. “Call Dr. Vance. Tell him to get his ass down here right now. If he’s more than twenty minutes, I’ll throw him off the pier.”
