"Jax?" Lana's voice is questioning, picking up on my tension.
"Stay close to me. Don't look around." I've positioned myself between her and the open garage, my hand going instinctively to the tactical knife at my belt. "Brandon, do you see anything?"
He's already scanning, his training making him trust my instincts even when there's no visible threat. "Nothing obvious. Want me to bring Derek here instead of walking to the vehicle?"
"Yes. And Andre pulls up for immediate secondary backup." I'm still scanning, trying to identify what's triggering my threat assessment. "Something's wrong."
We wait near the elevator bank while Brandon coordinates vehicle positioning. Thirty seconds that feel like thirty minutes, every concrete pillar potentially hiding someone, every parked car a possible ambush point. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows that make depth perception unreliable.
Then I see him.
Victor Reese, standing near a concrete pillar about forty feet away, dressed in business casual that makes him look like every other professional in this garage. Except I recognize him from the background checks I made and from the surveillance photos confirming he's a Glasshouse contractor. He's just standing there, phone in hand like he's checking messages, but his position gives him direct sight lines to our location.
"Brandon," I say, voice carrying urgency I'm barely controlling. "Victor Reese. Concrete pillar, eleven o'clock."
Brandon's hand goes to his concealed weapon, body shifting into a protective stance. "Confirmed visual. He's armed—bulge at right hip."
"Get Derek here now. And alert Andre we might have hostile contact." I'm already pulling Lana behind me, using my body as a shield between her and Reese. "Lana, stay behind me. Don't move."
She doesn't argue, her hand gripping the back of my jacket, body pressed close to mine. I can feel her breathing—quick and shallow, adrenaline spiking.
I'm watching Reese, waiting for him to make a move, trying to determine if this is surveillance or prelude to violence. He's not approaching, not drawing a weapon, just standing therewatching us with the focused attention of someone conducting assessment.
Derek's vehicle appears, engine already running, pulling up beside us with Andre's backup vehicle right behind. Brandon moves toward the rear door, his body still positioned defensively between us and where Reese stands watching.
"In the car," I tell Lana, never taking my eyes off Reese. "Now."
She moves immediately, sliding into the backseat. I follow, positioning myself between her and the window. Through the gap before Brandon closes the door, I see Reese finally move—not toward us, but away, disappearing behind a row of vehicles with the casual confidence of someone who's accomplished exactly what he came to do.
The door closes. Derek starts driving toward the exit.
And I realize with cold certainty that whatever assessment Reese just made, it wasn't the one we needed him to make.
CHAPTER 26: LANA
The car door closes, and Derek accelerates toward the exit ramp, his hands steady on the wheel despite the tension radiating from everyone in the vehicle. I'm pressed against Jax in the backseat, my heart still racing from seeing Victor Reese standing there watching us like we're prey he's waiting on for later consumption.
"We're clear," Brandon says from the front passenger seat, his voice carrying the professional calm of someone who's managed worse situations. "Reese didn't pursue. Andre's behind us. We're getting out of here."
The exit ramp curves upward toward street level. Fluorescent lights cast harsh illumination across concrete walls that feel too close, too confining. Almost there. Almost out of this garage and into open road where threats can't materialize from behind concrete pillars.
That's when the first shot rings out.
The sound is deafening in the enclosed space— a sharp crack that echoes off concrete, followed immediately by Derek's grunt of pain and the vehicle swerving as his right arm goes limp. Blood blooms across his sleeve, spreading fast, and he's trying to correct the steering with just his left hand while his right hangs useless.
"Derek's hit!" Brandon is already reaching for his weapon, twisting to look behind us. "Stay down!"
Jax pulls me down into the footwell, his body covering mine, protecting me with his own mass. I can feel his heart hammering against my back, can hear him breathing hard in my ear as he reaches for something at his belt—the tactical knife I saw this morning.
Derek is still driving despite being shot, professional training overriding pain, trying to get us out of the kill zone. But then more shots—rapid succession that sounds like multiple shooters—and the vehicle lurches as both rear tires explode. We're skidding now, Derek fighting for control with one functional arm, the car pulling hard to the right.
We crash into a concrete pillar.
The impact throws me against Jax who absorbs most of the force, his arms locked around me even as the airbags deploy in the front seat. White powder explodes through the cabin, choking and sharp, my ears ringing from the collision, everything happening too fast to process individually.
"Out of the vehicle!" Brandon is already moving, his door opening despite the deployed airbag. "They're coming!"
Andre's backup vehicle screeches to a halt behind us, and I hear his door slam as he takes position using his vehicle as cover. More gunfire—Andre and Brandon engaging the other shooters, trying to suppress them
