“And if you leave this room,” I cut her off, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “if you try to run to them... I lose my shield. And if I lose my shield, I will make sure there is nothing left for them to rescue.”
I pull her toward the elevator. This time, she follows. She’s stumbling, terrified, her world fracturing in real-time.
I swipe my palm on the biometric reader. The doors slide open.
I shove her inside and hit the button for the Tower.
As the doors close, sealing us in the steel box, I look at the floor indicator.
T.
Sanctuary.
Or a trap.
If the Syndicate breaches the lower levels, we will be trapped at the top of the tower. But at least up there, I’ve got the high ground. At least up there, I have my arsenal.
I look at Iris. She’s pressed against the back wall of the elevator, shivering. The black cotton swallows her frame, making her look fragile—like a child playing dress-up in a war zone.
“You’re scaring me,” she whispers.
I look at the numbers climbing. 2... 3... 4...
“Good,” I say.
I check the knife at my belt. My hand brushes the grip of my gun.
“Fear keeps you awake.”
11
CASSIAN
It takes twelve seconds to rise from the ground floor to the Tower.
Beside me, Iris is vibrating. It’s a subtle tremor, the kind that starts in the marrow and works its way out to the skin. She’s pressed into the corner of the elevator car, her arms wrapped around her midsection, clutching the loose fabric at her waist like it can hold her together.
She isn’t looking at me. She’s staring at the digital floor indicator, watching the numbers climb. Her eyes are wide, glassy, and fixed on a point a thousand miles away.
Bali.
The word hangs in the space between us.
I watch her reflection in the polished steel doors. She’s breaking; I can see the cracks forming. The denial she held onto in the Guest Suite, the desperate belief that her father was sending a rescue team, was shattered by a single news clip.
He didn’t send a rescue team; he sent a cover story.
Ding.
The doors slide open with a soft chime.
The Tower is dark. I keep it that way.
It’s a hollow space, occupying the entire top floor. The walls are reinforced concrete, clad in dark walnut to mask the bunker-like reality. The floor is black slate. The far wall, facing the ocean, is a single sheet of ballistic glass stretching thirty feet wide. Up here, facing the sheer drop to the water, we are completely out of range from the tree line.
Outside, the storm illuminates the room in strobe-light bursts of lightning over the Atlantic. Thunder rattles the glass, a low boom that you feel in your teeth.
I step out first.
