The sound of multiple car doors slamming shut cuts through the freezing wind.
I look past the SUV.
Three black, unmarked sedans have pulled up to the far end of the street, blocking the intersection. A dozen men wearing tactical gear with the lettersFBIstenciled across their backs are pouring out of the vehicles, their weapons drawn and aimed directly at Preston’s men.
"Federal agents! Drop your weapons and get on the ground!" a man with a megaphone shouts.
The two remaining contractors look at the dozen federal agents, then at Preston. They don't hesitate. They drop their sidearms onto the asphalt and put their hands on their heads, dropping to their knees.
Preston Vance stands perfectly still.
He doesn't raise his hands. He looks at the federal agents, then at Malcolm, and finally, his eyes lock onto me.
The absolute, crushing realization of his defeat is written across his face. He didn't lose his empire to the SEC. He didn't lose his legacy to the press.
He lost it to the stray.
Two federal agents move forward, grabbing Preston by the arms and forcing his hands behind his back. The heavy click of handcuffs echoes in the quiet street.
I lower the gun. My arms are shaking so badly I can barely hold the heavy metal.
Malcolm turns around.
He looks at the federal agents securing his father. He looks at the unconscious men on the ground. Then, he looks at me.
He crosses the street, his strides long and urgent. He doesn't care about the FBI agents swarming the scene. He doesn't care about the flashing lights.
He reaches me, his hands wrapping around my wrists. He gently takes the heavy black gun from my trembling fingers, setting it on the hood of a nearby parked car.
He pulls me into his chest.
I bury my face in the collar of his coat, my hands gripping the lapels with a desperate, frantic strength. I am shaking violently, the adrenaline crash hitting me with the force of a freight train.
"You didn't lock the door," Malcolm whispers into my hair. His voice is rough, completely stripped of its usual control.
"I told you," I sob against his chest, the tears finally breaking free. "I am not going to let you fall on your sword for me."
Malcolm’s arms tighten around me, lifting me slightly off the ground. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.
"Grant," I gasp, remembering the alley. I pull back slightly, looking up at his face. "Malcolm, Grant is in the alley. They shot him. He’s bleeding."
Malcolm’s expression hardens instantly. He turns his head, shouting to one of the federal agents. "We need a medic in the east alley! Now!"
Two agents immediately break off from the group, running toward the side of the warehouse.
Malcolm looks back down at me. He frames my face with his hands, his thumbs wiping the tears from my cheeks.
"Are you hurt?" he demands, his eyes scanning my face with a frantic intensity.
"I'm fine. I just... I shot a car." I let out a wet, hysterical laugh. "I think I need a lawyer."
A slow, devastating smile breaks across Malcolm’s face. It is the first time I have ever seen him smile without a trace of irony or calculation. It is pure, absolute relief.
"I know a very good attorney," he murmurs, his thumb brushing against my lower lip.
He kisses me.
The cold wind, the flashing lights, the sound of the sirens—it all fades into the background. I lean into him, my hands tangling in his dark hair, anchoring myself to the only safe place left in the world.
