Chapter 1074
Alistair checked his wrist. He wore a tactical watch linked to the biometric monitors of their inner circle. “His vitals just went offline. Heart rate monitor flatlined—or was removed—five minutes ago.”
The knot in Skye’s stomach turned to cold dread. Lucian didn’t take that watch off. He showered with it. He slept with it.
“Gear up,” Alistair ordered, his voice devoid of inflection but heavy with violence.
“I’m coming,” Skye said, standing.
“No.” Alistair turned on her, his eyes dark. “You stay inside the perimeter. Harper Cole is out there. After last night, I can’t be distracted worrying about your flank.”
“Lucian came back for me,” Skye said, stepping into his space. She grabbed his arm—his muscles were rock hard, vibrating with tension. “He risked his life to bring me those keys. I am not sitting in a bunker while he bleeds. I’m driving.”
Alistair stared at her for a long moment. He saw the resolve in her eyes—the same resolve that had kept her alive through the asylum, through the fire. He nodded once, sharp and tight.
“Felix, you’re eyes and ears,” Alistair barked. “Gabriel, get the SUV. We move in three minutes.”
The ride to the safe house on 5th Avenue—a nondescript apartment they kept for emergencies—was a blur of weaving through rain-soaked traffic. Gabriel drove with terrifying precision, running red lights while Alistair scanned the rooftops, his hand never leaving his weapon.
They parked in the alleyway. Gabriel stayed with the car, engine running. Alistair drew his weapon—a sleek, matte-black pistol that appeared in his hand like a magic trick—and motioned for Skye to stay behind him.
They took the service elevator up. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.
Alistair checked the door. “Electronic lock is fried. Someone used a pulse device.”
He kicked it open.
The apartment was pristine. Lucian was a minimalist; even his emergency safe house looked like a page from a catalogue. But the signs of a struggle were there, if you knew where to look. A scuff mark on the hardwood. A slightly crooked lampshade.
Skye stepped past Alistair and scanned the room. Her eyes landed on the Persian rug near the sofa.
There, lying on the intricate red pattern, was a pair of glasses.
She walked over and knelt down. They were Lucian’s spare pair—wire-rimmed, expensive. One arm was bent at a grotesque angle, the lens cracked. It looked as though they had been stepped on.
“He wouldn’t leave without his glasses,” Alistair said from the kitchen doorway. His voice was tight, a coiled spring ready to snap.
He walked over and gently took the broken glasses from her hand. He stared at them for a moment, his jaw working, then folded them carefully and slid them into his tactical vest pocket. “I’ll keep them,” he murmured. “He’ll need them when we get him back.”
Skye went into the kitchen. A cup of coffee sat next to a French press on the counter. She touched the ceramic. It was cold.