"I've got you," I said, my voice rough. "You're okay. I've got you."
She was crying, great heaving sobs that shook her whole body. I held her tighter, pressing my lips to her hair, whispering reassurances I wasn't sure I believed.
Because I'd almost lost her.
Five minutes. I'd looked away for five goddamn minutes, and she'd almost been taken.
If they'd gotten her out that door, if they'd gotten her into that truck, I might never have seen her again.
The thought made me want to put my fist through a wall.
Santos burst through the front door thirty seconds later, gun drawn. He took in the scene with one sweep of his trained eyes and immediately started securing the two men on the floor.
"I saw the truck," he said grimly. "I tried to intercept, but they had someone create a diversion out front. By the time I realized what was happening..."
"It's not your fault." I kept my arm around Betty, unwilling to let her go. "They were smart. Coordinated."
"Lang and Briggs?"
"Has to be. They're getting desperate." I looked down at Betty, who was still trembling in my arms. "We need to move. The bar's not safe anymore."
"Where do we go?" she asked, her voice small.
"I have a safe house. Off the grid, no connection to me or Black Hawk. We'll hole up there until the trial."
"What about the bar? My staff?"
"Marco can handle things for a few days. And your staff will be safer if you're not here." I cupped her face in my hands, making her look at me. "Three days, Betty. Three days and this is over. But I need you alive to testify. That means going dark until the trial."
She closed her eyes, taking a shaky breath. "Okay. Okay, let's go."
I kissed her forehead, then turned to Santos. "Call Martinez. I want these two interrogated. Find out everything they know about Lang and Briggs's plans. And call the FBI. Agent Torres needs to know about this."
"Copy that." Santos was already pulling out his phone. "What about the bar?"
"Lock it down. Nobody in or out until further notice."
I grabbed Betty's hand and led her toward the back door, stepping over the unconscious body of the second attacker. The delivery truck was still parked in the alley, engine running, waiting for a cargo that would never come.
My car was parked around the corner. I put Betty in the passenger seat, checked the perimeter, then slid behind the wheel and pulled out of the alley at a controlled speed.
No point in drawing attention. The last thing we needed was more eyes on us.
The safe house was an hour outside the city, a small cabin tucked into the woods at the end of a private road. I'd bought it five years ago under an alias, paid for in cash, with no paper trail connecting it to me or my company.
It was simple. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen that was barely more than a hotplate and a refrigerator. But it was secure. The windows were reinforced, the doors were steel, and I had cameras covering every approach.
Nobody was getting in here without me knowing.
Betty stood in the middle of the small living room, hugging herself as she took in the sparse surroundings.
"Cozy," she said with a weak attempt at humor.
"It's not much, but it's safe." I set down the bag I'd packed and crossed to her, pulling her into my arms. "How are you doing?"
"I don't know." She leaned into me, her forehead pressed against my chest. "Scared. Angry. Tired of being scared and angry."
"I know. I'm sorry."
