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To keep herself safe.
In a sudden burst,Penelope made her move. Her training as a therapist had never prepared her forthis, but her instincts as a survivor kicked in. She dove for the pistol shekept hidden in the top drawer of her desk—a precaution never meant to be used, yetnow it was her lifeline.
But Darren wasquicker, more desperate. He lunged across the room with a feral agility, hishands finding her throat with a predator's accuracy.
She gasped, herfingers inches away from salvation, but it might as well have been miles.
‘Dar... ren...’ shechoked out, her vision tunneling as oxygen became a precious commodity. Thiswasn't how it was supposed to end—not here, not now, not like this.
Penelope fought, hersurvival instincts waging a futile battle against the crushing force ofDarren's grip. She clawed at his hands, her nails seeking purchase on theimplacable skin, but her efforts were diminishing, her strength ebbing away.
As darkness encroachedupon her consciousness, Penelope Olson's world went black, the last threads ofher life slipping through the fingers of a man who she had vowed to help—a manwho had proven beyond her—or anyone's—help.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ella's hand rested onthe grimy door handle of Iron Horse Gym, her grip firm despite the film ofgrime on the metal. With a determined push, she swung the door wide and steppedinto the maw of the old brick building, its ambiance a time capsule of physicalexertion from days long past. Ripley fell into step behind her as they crossedthe threshold, their presence an immediate anomaly in this testosterone-fueledrelic.
The gym was a forestof rusted iron and tattered equipment; free weights clanged with the resonanceof hard work, while benches bore the scars of countless reps. The air was thickwith the musk of sweat, and the brick walls absorbed the echoes of grunts andthe slap of leather gloves against punching bags. Men, their vests clinging totheir bodies like second skins, paused mid-lift to eye the two women withcuriosity bordering on suspicion.
‘Can I help youladies?’ A voice cut through the symphony of strain. A personal trainer, Ellaguessed. He approached with a towel slung over his shoulder. His hair was shornclose to the scalp and his skin tanned from hours under UV lights masqueradingas sunlight.
‘We're looking forFrank Harlowe,’ Ella said. ‘Is he around?’
‘Frank? What do youwant with him?’ The trainer's brow furrowed, likely a gatekeeper assessing theintent of those who sought entry.
'We're with the FBI.'Ella flipped open her badge. 'It's part of an ongoing investigation. We can'tsay anymore.'
‘Hmmm,’ he said aftera pause. ‘Frank is upstairs. He's leading a Bodypump class.’
‘Then that's wherewe're going,’ Ella replied. She motioned to Ripley, and together they madetheir way toward the stairwell, the creak of each step underfoot echoing theanticipation tightening in Ella's chest. The trainer watched them ascend with acurious eye before taking a few steps closer to the stairwell, probably toeavesdrop, Ella guessed.
The rhythmic clank ofiron and the grunts of exertion grew louder as Ella and Ripley emerged at thetop of the staircase. The room before them was awash with the sweat and focusof hard physical labor, a stark gymnasium where old-school metal met flesh. Andthere, orchestrating this symphony of strength, stood Frank Harlowe, a colossusamong mere mortals.
‘Five more reps, thenwe're out,’ he bellowed, his voice booming over the eclectic mix of gasps andthe thud of weights hitting the floor. ‘Embrace the hurt. Pain's good. Itteaches you things.’
Ella turned to herpartner. 'Pain's good. It teaches you things,' she repeated. 'You know wherethat's from?'
'Sadly, yes,' Ripleysaid.
Ella's gaze lockedonto the man who seemed to command gravity itself, each weight lifted with aprimal ease that bespoke a power humbling to witness. Frank Harlowe was afusion of muscle and art, his giant form wrapped in a tapestry of vivid tattoosthat climbed his neck and crowned his skull. A glint of gold adorned one ear,each earring shimmering in the light.
‘Looks like we foundour guy,’ Ripley muttered.
Ella's intrusion intoFrank's domain did not go unnoticed. The man's sharp gaze cut across the roomand settled on the two interlopers. A grin split his face, a chiseled sculpturebreaking into warmth.
‘Looks like we gotsome new recruits,’ he called out. ‘You gonna grab some weights and join in orwhat?.’
Ella remainedimpassive, her hand moving to the badge clipped at her belt and lifting it justenough for Frank to catch the gleam of authority. She needed no words; theshield spoke for her.
The display haltedFrank mid-count, realization dawning in his eyes. With a casual authority, heplaced the iron bar down—a leviathan laying down his trident—and made a strangegesture to his class.
‘Alright, take five,team. Hydrate. I'll be right back.’
In the wake of hisannouncement, a rustle of confusion swept through the class, but they dispersedobediently. Ella stepped forward, the concrete floor of Iron Horse Gym cool andfirm beneath her feet. Ripley flanked her, both agents' eyes fixed on the toweringfigure before them. Frank Harlowe was indeed a mountain of a man; hisformidable frame made the spacious gym seem suddenly cramped.
'You don't look likeyou're here to get sweaty,' he said, his voice now stripped of the earlierbravado. 'To what do I owe the pleasure?'
‘Frank Harlowe?’ Ellaconfirmed.
