The District really is a mob city. I see it today, as they operate together.
“We need you to listen carefully,” Blackborn says, his voice lowering. “Your foster mother is agitated. We believe she will respond best to you, but?—"
“But what?” I ask.Where is Sir?“Where is Mr Butcher?”
“Boss is busy,” one henchman says to me, tone even and deep. The wordbusyrepeats in my mind.Busy? Busy?Busy doing what?Is this all a lie to shield the truth that he’s actually hurt?Is he?
Because I know, to my core, to the heart that beats for him, that he would never abandon me to face this alone. So something is wrong,very, very wrong.
I can’t?—
I can’t think about that.
Won’t.
God, please.
“Can you get her talking while we assess how to get in the window. Distract her?” Blackborn interrupts my thoughts before I reel out of control.
We pass through a side entrance, the doors punched open for us by a security guard. Inside, the hospital walls seem to close in as we walk towards the elevators. I shiver; the air is too cold, or maybe it’s me, maybe it’s the adrenaline and fear.
I nod. “Yes,” I answer, a choked whisper betraying the strength I try to outwardly show.
With a stiff nod, Blackborn peels off without a word, replaced by another one of Clay’s henchmen.
In the reflection of the silvery elevator ahead, I watch myself approach. I look like a little girl—blonde hair wild, clothing thrown on in a hurry, cheeks streaked with the salty tracks of old tears. I look like a little girl,yes, but I’m a mother.
Suddenly, the microphone pinned to the henchman’s suit crackles. “She has shut the window,” the speaker says, “and closed the blinds.”
No.
A crack forms in my resolve, my legs buckling, but the henchman at my side braces my arm, steadying me. “Is HJ…” I falter. “Bolton”—I clarify— alright?” My breath catches as I wait for the answer.
“Yes, Boss. Two fractured legs, but he is alive and well.”
I exhale hard.That’s enough.
We take the elevator up. Inside the metal box, I consider what to say to Eleanor. I’m running out of time, so should I be honest or try reaching whatever heart she has? Should I provoke her to come out of the room? Now that the blinds are drawn, they'll have to break through somehow. I picture a firefighter from some TV show I once watched—swinging through theair, boot connecting with glass, sending shards and blinds flying inward. Is that their plan? My stomach churns with bile and panic at the thought of flying glass anywhere near my babies.
I have to get them out peacefully.
On the top floor, the elevator dings and opens. For a second, I expect something cinematic, but instead there is silence. Only four men wait in the hallway in full riot gear. I hold my breath as I walk past them. She doesn’t have a gun, does she? Then I look ahead… my eyes are drawn to the figure at the end of the corridor.
It’s him.
Max Butcher.
Not Clay?
Max stands at the far end, opposite a door, his gaze already fixed on me. He looks like hell—white shirt wrinkled and rolled up to his elbows. Jaw rough and lips in a firm line. But his eyes are full of determination, fixed to me as tight as any lock or chain.
My pulse races.
Every muscle in my legs wants to run to him, to collapse in his unfamiliar arms because heisfamily, but I don’t know him well enough to do that. If it were someone else here, had it been Bronson, Xander, or—Clay. The latter name feels like a knife plunging into my heart because if I dwell on it too long, let it roll in my thoughts, the questions surrounding why he isn’t here will choke the life and strength from me.
I ache for Clay.
Hehasabandoned me.
