AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I’m not going anywhere. I stand with you,” Ana argues.
“That’s not how this works. Not with me. I love you,” I grit out through clenched teeth, J.P. wedged between us. “That means I protect you. That means I die for you.”
“I’m not hiding. That’s what started this.” She steps back like she’s ready to make a run for it.
Run into their trap, surrender, sacrifice herself.
My life flashes before my eyes. “Get your ass up there.”
“No. I can talk to them. They won’t kill me.”
“No, they won’t kill you,” I agree with her. “But they will take you and my son.” I bring our mouths close. “You’ll never see me and Sophie again.”
“Darragh...” She visibly shakes.
“Go take care of my daughter and our son.” I push her toward the door to the attic.
Looking up, I see Sophie waiting at the top, holding herself.
“I love you.” Kissing Ana, I whisper, “Tell me you love me. I don’t care if she hears us.”
“I love you,” Ana says softly.
“There’re twelve hours’ worth of food and water. There are no communication lines because those can be tracked. It’s built where it is, so no one knows it’s there. There is an escape hatch to the roof.”
That part was added in the event of an actual flood and we need to be rescued by the Coast Guard.
Panic rooms back in the day were for rich people to hide from burglars or lone-wolf murderers. Not gangsters with hand grenades, drones, military tracking devices, and rocket launchers.
Ana climbs the narrow steps, white-knuckling the railing while holding the baby with the other hand.
Baby…
J.P. has needs I didn’t stock. Shite.
Ana is breastfeeding, but she’ll need diapers, wipes, blankets, and binkies in case he cries.
When Ana reaches the top, I close the door and pull the recessed panel aside to hide the entry.
An idiot won’t figure it out, but a professional might.
Bratva mercenaries are professional…
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Darragh
Ipush away the idea that I’ll never see my family again. This is the life I was born into. As much as I tried to escape it, it found me.
It’s at my doorstep.
Inside the locked walk-in closet off the hallway, I open my safe and stare at the several handguns packed into a vest. I slip it on, the weight a wake-up call to what these things can do.
Shaking, I grab the special burner phone that uses a dedicated wavelength on the government communications spectrum. Space Balor pays close to ten thousand dollars a month for the family to use in dire emergencies. It’s technically reserved for high-level government officials.
And Astoria Royals, apparently.
I’ve had to commit everyone’s cell phone number to memory, since the special phone doesn’t store anything. It’s not a smart phone, I can’t check my email on it. It’s for calls to my brothers only. To whoever the hell is manning it.
