I pull out my phone as I walk to the car. Six missed calls. One from Savannah. Five from Alexi. I dial Savannah first. It rings once, then goes to a generic voicemail, like her phone is off or destroyed.
I try again. Same thing.
“Marcus, drive faster,” I tell my driver as I dial Alexi.
He answers on the first ring. “Dad, where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling for an hour.”
“I was in a meeting. What’s wrong?”
“Savannah texted me forty-five minutes ago. Said FBI agents showed up at the penthouse. That they were taking her forquestioning.” His voice is tight with panic. “I tried calling her back, but her phone goes straight to voicemail. I tried calling the penthouse, but no one’s answering. Not the guards, not Marie, not anyone.”
“What exactly did her text say?”
“Hold on.” I hear him pulling it up. “FBI agents here. Taking me to federal courthouse for questioning. Stewart Ave. Something feels wrong. Call me. That was it. Sent at 2:03 PM.”
“Stewart Avenue doesn’t have a federal courthouse. The federal court is on Las Vegas Boulevard.”
“I know. That’s why I’ve been calling you. Dad, something’s wrong.”
“It’s not the FBI.” I’m already dialing Silas. “It’s the Kozlovs. They found a way in.”
“How? We have security everywhere. Multiple checkpoints. There’s no way they could?—”
“Someone on the inside. Had to be.” Silas answers, and I don’t give him time to speak. “Savannah’s been taken. Fake FBI agents showed up at the penthouse an hour ago. I need you to pull all security footage from the building immediately. Find out who let them through.”
“On it. Where are you?”
“Ten minutes out. Get everyone to the penthouse. Now.”
I hang up and lean forward. “Marcus, run every red light. I don’t care if we get pulled over.”
“Yes, sir.”
The city blurs past as we weave through traffic. I try Savannah’s phone again. Still nothing.
I try the penthouse landline. It rings and rings. No answer.
I try, Pedro. His phone goes to voicemail after one ring.
Wrong. Everything about this is wrong.
My phone buzzes with a text from Savannah’s number:I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. I need space. Don’t look for me.
I stare at the message. Read it three times.
What the fuck?
I call the number, and it goes straight to voicemail.
Another text comes through:I left some things at the penthouse. I’ll send for them later. Please don’t contact me.
“Faster,” I tell Marcus.
We screech to a stop outside my building twelve minutes later. I’m out of the car before it fully stops, running for the entrance.
The lobby is empty. No guards at the security desk. No one at the checkpoints. The metal detector is turned off, the ID scanner dark.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator, climbing two at a time. My phone rings—Silas.
