Chapter 1078
They moved through the back of the factory, sticking to the shadows. Their mercenaries — Gabriel and his team — were already engaging the real threat outside. The sound of suppressed fire popped in a steady rhythm.
They made it to the SUV. Gabriel was behind the wheel, a cut on his forehead bleeding freely.
“We’re blown, boss,” Gabriel grunted as they dove into the back seat. “Professional hit squad. The Cleaners.”
“Drive,” Alistair barked. “Airport. Now.”
The ride to the private airstrip was a high-speed blur. Skye pulled up the schematics for Neptune’s Palace on her tablet, tethered to Felix’s secure connection.
“It looks like a tourist trap on the Atlantic City boardwalk,” Skye said, swiping through photos of a garish, neon-lit wedding chapel and casino complex. “Fake Poseidon statues, plastic coral. Why use this as a transfer point?”
“Because nobody looks at the trash in Atlantic City,” Alistair said, reloading a magazine. “It’s hiding in plain sight. Beneath the complex, there will be a smuggler’s dock — or a tunnel system connecting to the marina.”
He looked at her. “Skye, if The Cleaners are involved, this is going to be a war zone. You should stay on the plane.”
Skye looked up from the tablet. “Lucian is my friend. He’s family. He came back for me. I’m not sitting on the sidelines while you bleed for me.”
Alistair reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His hand lingered on her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “I don’t mind bleeding for you. I mind you seeing it.”
“I’ve seen enough blood, Alistair,” Skye said, covering his hand with hers. “I’m not the girl who fainted at the sight of a needle anymore. I’m the woman who runs the empire you built.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his dark eyes searching hers. The paranoia was still there, lurking in the depths, but the trust was stronger. Then he nodded — a sharp, decisive movement.
“Fine. But you stay on my six. And if I say run, you run. No debate.”
“Deal,” Skye lied. She would never run. Not again.
They boarded the Gulfstream — Alistair’s private jet, always fueled and prepped for rapid extraction. As the engines whined to life, Skye looked out the window at the receding skyline of Sea City. Somewhere out there, Lucian was being moved.
He was alone. He was probably hurt.
She closed her eyes and pictured the bent glasses on his rug.
Hang on, Lucian. We’re coming.
The flight to the private airfield just outside Atlantic City was a short, twenty-minute hop. They spent it gearing up. Alistair handed Skye a lightweight Kevlar vest.
“Put it on,” he ordered.
Skye was changing into a loose, structured sequined blazer and a matching short skirt — an outfit that screamed “high roller” but was cut generously enough to conceal the armor. She pulled the vest on, tightening the straps until it hugged her ribs. The blazer slid over it, the shoulder pads masking the bulk of the Kevlar.
“Here,” Alistair said, holding out a small, pearl-handled pistol from the armory locker. “It fits in the clutch. Safety is off. Don’t hesitate.”