Damron grabbed the phone. "You want me, Ghost? Come get me. Leave her alone."
"Where's the fun in that?" Ghost's voice was fading, like he was moving the phone away from his mouth. "Besides, I already got what I came for tonight. Consider this a housewarming gift, Senator. Next time, I'll bring marshmallows."
The line went dead.
Damron stared at the phone for a long moment, then hurled it out the window. It shattered against the asphalt, plastic shards scattering under the streetlight. His breathing was heavy, controlled, the kind of calm that came right before someone got their throat ripped out.
"He's not done," I said, stating the obvious.
"No. He's just getting warmed up." Damron keyed the radio again. "Nitro, report."
Static, then: "Escalade's gone. Must've rolled out when the fire trucks arrived. Found some shell casings though—looks like they were ready for a fight."
"Copy. Fall back to base. We're coming in."
I watched the last of my house collapse in on itself, the flames reaching toward the sky like desperate fingers. The fire department was already rolling up their hoses, accepting that there was nothing left to save. A lifetime of careful political construction reduced to smoke and ash in under an hour.
"You can stay with me," Damron said, not looking at me as he threw the truck into drive. "Until this is over."
I turned to study his profile in the dashboard light—the hard line of his jaw, the scar that ran from his temple to his cheekbone, the way his hands gripped the wheel like he was choking the life out of it. Three years ago, I'd walked away from this man because I couldn't handle the violence that followed him like a shadow. Now that same violence was the only thing standing between me and a shallow grave.
"Your place," I said. "Right."
He shot me a look. "You got a better idea?"
I didn't. The hotel was compromised, my campaign headquarters was probably next on Ghost's list, and every safe house the FBI could offer would just be another target. At least with Damron, I knew the devil I was dealing with.
"Just until the election," I said, more to convince myself than him.
"Just until Ghost is dead," he corrected.
“I have a confession,” I said. “I have an apartment under an assumed name.” I shrugged when he gave me the “Damron what the fuck” look. He chuckled when I gave him the address. We all needed a safe place every now and again.
Chapter thirteen
Carly
Iwoke to the sound of someone jiggling the doorknob with the patience of a safecracker. The morning light was thin and dusty, slicing through the apartment’s blackout drapes in strips barely wide enough to see the clock: 6:38 a.m. The silk robe I’d thrown on clung to last night’s sweat. I padded down the hall barefoot, still expecting to find Damron asleep on my couch like a lion who’d gorged on steak and whiskey.
He wasn’t on the couch.
He was at the front door, forearm braced against the jamb, entire body angled so that only half a shoulder and one sharp blue eye would be visible through the peephole. In his left hand, he gripped the Sig Sauer with the offhand delicacy of someone who’d spent a lot of time not wanting to leave prints. He didn’t turn, but he knew I was there—call it outlaw ESP or just that I’d always breathed loud in the mornings.
“You know this lock’s a piece of shit, right?” he said, low and clinical, finger resting on the trigger guard. “Could open it with a credit card.”
I shrugged, more interested in the way his T-shirt bunched over his back than the state of my hardware. “I don’t get a lot of unwanted visitors. Not the apartment type.”
He let the silence ride. Behind the door, the apartment hallway was dead. Damron holstered the gun and dropped to a squat, scanning the baseboard for… what, booby traps? Wire taps? Sometimes I thought he was just showing off. But then he picked up a tiny red scrap, turned it over in his palm, and held it out to me. “That wasn’t here last night,” he said.
It was a plastic tie, the kind used to seal delivery bags from the restaurant down the street. “Maybe I ordered pad see ew in my sleep,” I said.
His mouth twitched like he was fighting not to smile. “Maybe. Or maybe someone’s watching your food delivery.” He went to the window, taking a circuitous route through the kitchen, never once crossing in front of the glass. In another life he would’ve made a hell of a cat burglar, or maybe a Secret Service agent. He flicked the curtain with a knuckle, just enough to peer out, then immediately ducked back.
I caught a flash of motion in the courtyard below—someone jogging, slow and steady, face buried in a hoodie. “Looks like a neighbor,” I said.
“Yeah. Except they lapped the building three times since dawn. And stopped twice to take out a phone.” He waited, counting off seconds, then moved again, this time to the bedroom. I followed, arms crossed, robe cinched tight. He didn’t stop until he’d made a full sweep: closet, bathroom, under the bed, even the crawlspace where I stashed my childhood diaries. He straightened, hands on hips, scanning the apartment like it was a puzzle he could solve by staring hard enough.
I couldn’t help myself. “Enjoying the tour?”
