Chapter 26 I’m A Wolfe
Hope is a dangerous drug, especially when it is delivered through a phone line by a stranger through an unknown number.
The few seconds that I wait for the person on the other end of the phone to speak feel like forever. And just when I’m about to break and ask who is on the phone, the person finally speaks.
"Hi. Were you the one sharing a flyer a few hours ago at the commer-"
"Yes!" I say, so loud that the driver turns back and frowns at me. I settle in the back seat again and take a deep breath. "Yes I was."
"I saw them," the girl says. Her voice is young, breathless, and competes with the sound of a milk steamer in the background. "Or at least, I heard that someone saw them. An old woman came by my kiosk. She saw your flyer. She said she saw a man in a dark hoodie carrying a little girl into the Greenery Villas complex about ten minutes ago."
My fingers clench the phone so hard the plastic casing groans. "Greenery Villas? Are you sure? The man in the photo?"
"She was positive. The yellow dress. The dark hair. She said the man looked like he was trying to hide his face behind a mask."
I ask for the exact address, my heart performing a frantic, rhythmic dance. Greenery Villas. I know that name. It is a sprawling, high-end residential area filled with winding paths and private lakes. It is also exactly forty minutes in the opposite direction of the South Ring Road refinery.
The text from the kidnapper was a decoy. They wanted me alone in a graveyard of rust and salt while they tucked Lily away in a maze of luxury villas.
"Change of plans," I tell the taxi driver. I lean forward, my eyes fixed on his in the rearview mirror. "We’re going to Greenery Villas. Now."
The driver lets out a long, theatrical groan. He taps the steering wheel, his face a mask of irritation. "Lady, that’s the other side of the city. Traffic on the bridge is going to be a nightmare. I’ve got a shift ending in an hour."
"I’ll pay you triple," I say. I don’t have the money on me to come back, but I have Alistair’s name and a pistol in my bag. I’ll make it work. "Just get me there. Fast."
The mention of triple pay acts like a shot of nitrous. He whips the car into a sharp U-turn, the tires screeching against the asphalt. We head north, leaving the industrial smog of the refinery district behind.
I try to settle into the seat, but a movement in the side mirror catches my eye. A sleek, black sedan with tinted windows is hovering two cars behind us. It stayed behind us when we turned. It stayed behind us when we sped up.
A cold, sharp clarity settles over me. Beatrice isn’t just watching. She’s hunting.
"Driver," I say, my voice low and urgent. "Don’t look now, but that black car has been on our tail since the estate. I need you to lose them."
"You think this is a movie?" the driver asks, but I can see the sudden tension in his shoulders.
"I think your triple pay depends on us getting to the Villas alone," I counter.
He doesn’t argue. He takes a sharp right into a narrow side street lined with overflowing trash bins and brick warehouses. The black sedan follows. He takes a left. They’re still there.
"Up ahead," I say, pointing to a massive, neon-lit billboard for a new luxury condo development. It sits on the edge of a construction site, a giant wooden wall of advertisements that creates a perfect blind spot. "Pull over right behind that billboard. Quickly."
The driver slams on the brakes. The car skids to a halt in the shadows behind the giant wooden structure. I’m out of the door before the wheels stop spinning. I grab a handful of cash from my wallet, whatever is left, and shove it at him.
"Keep driving toward South Ring Road," I tell him. "Lead them all the way to the refinery. Don’t look back. Just go."
He nods, his eyes wide, and peels away. I duck behind the heavy timber supports of the billboard, the scent of damp sawdust and wet cement filling my nose. I press my back against the wood, my breath coming in shallow, quiet gasps.
A few seconds later, the black sedan roars past. They don’t even slow down. They’re so focused on the taxi that they don’t see the girl in the dark shirt huddled in the dirt.
I wait until the sound of their engine fades into the distance before I step out. My legs feel like they’re made of lead, but I force myself to walk to the main road. I hail a different cab, a battered yellow one that smells like peppermint and old upholstery.
"Greenery Villas," I say.
The trip takes forever. Every red light feels like a personal insult. Every slow-moving truck is a barrier between Lily and me. By the time the ornate stone gates of the Villas appear, the sun is beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges.
I tell the driver to drop me a block away. I don’t want the noise of the car to announce my arrival.
As I walk toward the entrance, I see it. A familiar, obsidian-black SUV is parked haphazardly near the guard shack. It is Alistair’s car. He is already here. He found the lead before I did.
A wave of panic hits me. If he sees me, he’ll send me back. He’ll put me in a car and lock me in the villa "for my own safety" while he handles the mess. He won’t let me help. He won’t let me be the person who finds her.
I need to get inside without being seen.
I look at my reflection in a shop window. I’m a mess. My hair is wild, my face is smudged with dirt from the billboard, and the scrape on my arm is a raw, angry red. I reach into my bag and pull out an oversized, floppy sunhat I’d shoved in there earlier for Lily. I jam it onto my head, pulling the brim low. I pull my reversible jacket inside out, revealing a muted olive green that blends better with the manicured hedges of the complex.
I look like a tired gardener or a lost tourist. It’ll have to do.
I find a service path that runs along the perimeter of the stone wall. It’s narrow, overgrown with ivy and thorns that snag at my sleeves. I move quietly, my bare feet light on the mulch.
I hear voices ahead. I freeze, pressing myself into the shadows of a large oak tree.
"They’re heading toward the lake," a voice says. It is Jackson. With the number of times i’ve heard it, I’d know that voice anywhere. "The suspect has been spotted near the boat house. He’s got the girl, Alistair. He’s cornered."
"Is he armed?" Alistair’s voice is a low, serrated growl. It makes the hair on my arms stand up.
"A knife," Jackson replies. "He’s desperate. He knows we’ve closed the exits."
The sound of a car door slamming echoes through the quiet street. The SUV roars to life, the tires spitting gravel as Alistair speeds off toward the center of the complex.
I can’t keep up on foot. The lake is nearly a mile away.
I look around, my eyes searching the driveway of a nearby villa. Propped against a stone wall is a bicycle. It’s an old, rusty cruiser with a wicker basket and a bell that looks like it hasn’t been rung in a decade.
"Sorry," I whisper to the empty air.
I grab the handlebars and swing my leg over. The chain groans in protest as I start to pedal. I’m not a cyclist. I’m a girl in a floppy hat and a stolen bike, chasing a billionaire’s motorcade through a maze of million-dollar homes. It would be funny if I weren’t so close to vomiting.
The wind whistles past my ears, carrying the scent of mown grass and lake water. I follow the sound of the engines, my legs burning with the effort. I round a corner, and the lake comes into view. It is a vast, dark mirror reflecting the dying light of the sun.
I see the SUV parked near a row of weeping willows. I skid to a halt, ditching the bike in the tall grass. I move on my stomach now, crawling through the brush until I am hidden behind the thick, drooping branches of a willow tree.
The scene ahead is a nightmare of sharp edges and long shadows.
Alistair is standing twenty feet from the water’s edge. He’s alone, his bodyguards having fanned out into the trees. He looks like a statue carved from shadow, his hands open at his sides, his gaze fixed on the man standing on the wooden pier.
The kidnapper is a small, wiry man. He’s wearing the dark hoodie from the surveillance footage, but the mask is gone, revealing a face twisted with a frantic, cornered rage. He has one arm wrapped tightly around Lily’s waist, hoisting her up so her feet dangle.
In his other hand, he holds a long, serrated hunting knife. The blade is pressed firmly against Lily’s throat.
The sight of it makes the world tilt. I have to bite my tongue to keep from screaming. Why? Why would someone go to these lengths. Lily is just a little girl who wanted a cookie. She has nothing to do with this...or anything at all.
But...
Right now, Lily looks nothing like a little girl. She is remarkably still. She isn’t crying. She isn’t struggling. She looks at Alistair, her small face pale, but her eyes as steady as his.
Do the Wolfe’s go through some kind of special training to hide their emotions?
"Don’t come any closer!" the man screams. His voice is high, cracking with a terrifying instability. "I’ll do it! I swear to God, I’ll do it! I have nothing left to lose!"
"You have your life," Alistair says. His voice is remarkably calm, a low anchor in the chaos. "Let the girl go, and we can talk about how you keep it. If you hurt her, there isn’t a corner of this world dark enough to hide you from me."
"I don’t want to talk!" the man howls.
He jerks Lily closer, the knife glinting in the last rays of the sun. I can see the metal pressing into her soft skin. Tears sting my eyes and I have to press my lips together so I don’t feel like I’m falling apart.
Lily looks directly at the man, then back at Alistair.
"I’m not afraid," Lily says. Her voice is clear, ringing out across the water. It’s the voice of a Wolfe. "I’m a daughter of the Wolfe family. My uncle is going to make sure you pay for this. And so would my great-granny."
The man flinches, his hand shaking. How did things get this out of control?