“Flattered,” I grunt. “You never stop moving, but right now you need to stop long enough to listen.”
She sets the folder down and folds her arms, mirroring my stance. “I’m listening, Reaper, but if this is another lecture about how I’m your mission and I have to follow every command, I’ve already heard it.”
I step closer. “The storm is coming in faster than they predicted. Category 2 by tonight, possibly higher. Your cottage sits too close to the marsh. If the surge hits hard, this place could flood. And whoever stole that painting knows exactly where you live. The black van this morning proved they’re watching. We stay here, we’re sitting ducks.”
Her chin lifts in that stubborn way I’m beginning to recognize. “I have responsibilities. The insurance adjuster still needs final documentation. Several artists are counting on me to safeguard their work. I can’t just disappear.”
“You’re not disappearing.” I keep my tone even, but I let the weight settle. “We’re relocating to a secure location until the storm passes and we have better intel. Salt & Steel has a safe house about thirty miles inland, on high ground in the pinelands. Old reinforced hunting lodge, gated access, surrounded by dense woods and wetlands. Hard to reach, harder to approach without being seen. Generator, supplies, solid construction. No one gets there unless they know the route. It’s the smartest move.”
She studies me for a long moment, eyes narrowing. “And you’ll be there the whole time?”
“Every second.”
“What about the artwork? I have to make sure it’s all safe first.”
“I have guys coming in ten minutes to help move it to our base. It’s more inland and has several secure rooms. I promise it will be safe there.”
A flicker of reluctance mixed with trust crosses her face. She glances around her cottage, at the art still waiting to be cataloged, at the windows that suddenly feel too exposed. The wind howls louder outside, rattling the glass.
“Fine,” she says at last. “I’m bringing my research notes on the collection. The stolen Gullah painting isn’t just valuable art. I was digging into its provenance before the gala. There are rumors that it contains hidden markings that point to a ledger of elite black-market dealings. Old Lowcountry families, offshore accounts, names that could make powerful people very nervous. If that’s why they took it, I need those notes.”
I nod once. “Pack what you need. We leave in thirty minutes. I’ll radio Cal and have the perimeter team ready.”
She moves with purpose then, gathering notebooks, a laptop, and several sealed envelopes of photographs and handwritten research. While she does that, my guys arrive and start loading the art into vans for the trip to the secure base. Isabella watches every one of them, making sure they treat the pieces with care.
I help her carry the bags to my truck, keeping one eye on the street the entire time. Fat raindrops splatter against the windshield by the time we pull away from Marshview Lane.
The drive inland is tense and quiet. Isabella sits in the passenger seat, fingers tapping lightly on her knee as she stares out at the swaying trees. Messages ding on my phone—Rhea confirming supplies are stocked, Cal warning about downed power lines and worsening storm surge closer to the coast. I keep my answers short. My focus stays on the road and the woman beside me.
The rain intensifies as we leave the coastal highway and turn onto narrower back roads. By the time we reach the long privatedrive leading to the safe house, the wind is whipping hard enough to rock the truck. The property sits on a slight rise in the pinelands, dense longleaf pines and thick underbrush providing natural cover. A heavy gate blocks the entrance. I punch in the code and wait for it to swing open.
The safe house is built solid with heavy timbers and elevated on a concrete foundation. Metal storm shutters cover the windows, and a backup generator hums softly from the side building. It’s isolated, defensible, and far enough inland to avoid the worst of the surge.
I pull under the covered carport and kill the engine. Rain hammers the roof as I help Isabella out of the truck and grab the bags. We make a quick dash to the front door. Once inside, I lock the heavy deadbolt and flip the main power switch. Lights flicker on, then hold steady.
The interior is simple but functional, one large open room with a stone fireplace, a long leather couch, a sturdy kitchen table, and a single bedroom off to the side with a king-sized bed. Storm shutters make the space feel secure but dim.
“Get dry and warm,” I tell her, grabbing towels from the supply closet. “I’m going to check the generator.”
She takes the towel, but her eyes follow me as I move through the rooms, testing locks and scanning the tree line through the narrow gaps in the shutters. The wind screams outside, rain lashing the metal shutters in heavy sheets. I check every entry point twice. Nothing should reach us here.
When I return to the main room, Isabella has changed into dry clothes, a soft gray sweater and leggings. She sits at the kitchen table, unpacking her research notes with careful hands. Papers spread across the surface under the glow of a battery lantern. Her focus is intense, brows drawn together as she studies one page in particular.
I heat water for coffee on the small propane stove. The generator hums steadily in the background, but I know it won’t last forever if the storm worsens.
“Find anything useful?” I ask, setting a mug of black coffee beside her.
She looks up, hazel eyes bright despite the exhaustion. “The stolen Gullah painting has a hidden compartment in the frame. It’s an old technique some Lowcountry artists used during turbulent times. There’s supposed to be a ledger inside with names, dates, and transactions from people who use the art world to launder money and move illegal goods. If the thieves know about it, they don’t just want the painting for its market value. They wanted the information.”
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching her. The wind howls louder, and the lodge creaks under the force. Rain hammers the roof like gunfire. “That ledger could be the reason they’re willing to kill. Powerful people don’t like loose ends.”
“Exactly.” She taps the page. “The ledger wasn’t in the frame anymore. I took it out before putting it on display. It was one of our insurance requirements. Although no one knows that except for the adjuster and me. I was close to deciphering part of the code before the heist.”
A sharp crack sounds outside, probably a falling branch. The generator sputters. Lights flicker once, twice, then die completely. Darkness swallows the room except for the faint red glow of the emergency lantern on the table.
Isabella’s breath catches. I move instantly, crossing the space in three strides to stand beside her. The storm rages harder now, wind screaming through the pines, rain lashing the shutters so violently they rattle in their frames.
“Stay close,” I say, voice low. My hand finds her shoulder in the dim light, steadying her. “Generator might kick back on, but we prepare for the worst.”
