"Whitlock security. Ashford. Police. Anyone who knows her movements."
"Why?" he bites out.
I let the silence stretch before I let the bomb drop. "Because somebody already does and knows how to use it against her."
He stares at me. I can practically see the possibilities assembling behind his eyes. Threat assessments. Routes. Vehicles. Safe houses. People he trusts. People nobody knows he trusts. He's already planning it.
Beautiful.
"Anything else?" he asks.
I look down at my chains and then back at him. "One thing."
"What?"
"If you take Clara Whitlock"—I pause—"Make damn sure nobody knows it was you."
His face changes, just slightly.
Suspicion.
Good. I smile again and add, "Because her family won't ask questions first."
He stands there another second before he walks out.
The steel door slams. The locks engage.
I wait until I can’t hear his footsteps down the hallway.
Then I lean my head against the wall and close my eyes.
For five weeks, Gabriel Reyes has believed I'm his prisoner. Poor bastard. He thinks locking me in here stopped me from blowing everything to hell.
The bomb? Not Clara Whitlock. She’s the match.
And if Gabriel Reyes puts his hands on her himself? I don't even need to strike it. He will.
I close my eyes and imagine the fallout. “Boom,” I whisper, smiling.
67
HENDRICKS
Ashford's gates come into view, and every instinct I have tells me to turn the car around.
I study them, twenty yards ahead, my hand steady on the wheel, my expression neutral. Two armed men at the entrance. Another stationed beyond the gatehouse. Cameras covering both approaches. More security farther up the drive where I can't see them.
I know they're there. I spent most of last night making sure I knew exactly what we were walking into.
Every entrance. Every exit. Every blind spot. Every possible place Ashford could put a man with a gun.
I planned for all of it.
But I’m still going to check one more time. I tap the comms. “Status.”
“Set,” Jake says.
“Overwatch,” Mason confirms.