Page 60 of Grant’s Flame

Leila’s pained sob sent him into grimacing silence. In one form or another, we all joined him.

“Okay, everyone take a minute and breathe,” I said brusquely, scrounging deep for a part of my psyche that hadn’t seen exercise in a while. It was my get-shit-done bravado, usually yanked out for occasions like making potato salad when the potatoes were delivered late, or a last-minute anniversary party for fifty, or an awards night after party with a thousand of Hollywood’s elite in the next room. But there was no next room here. And unless I pulled my shit together and turned everyone’s tears into fuel, there’d be no help on the way for the man I loved.

“I’m going to the upper deck to see if I can get a cell signal. Mr. Twombley has a few friends in high places.”

When the captain arrived on deck, nobody wasted any more time, so neither did I. After sprinting my way up to the flybridge, I rasped a fervent prayer before unlocking my phone again. I ended that prayer with tearful gratitude. Three bars. I’d take it. I had to.

Fortunately, Shark Enterprises’ main switchboard number was saved in my phone. On the rare occasion Abstract was running late with deliveries to the offices, it was handy for fast dialing. I ignored the tremble of my finger as I selected the number now.

“Hello. Thank you for calling Shark Enterprises International. Our normal business hours are eight a.m. to six p.m. Pacific Time, but your call is very important to us. To access our company voice mail directory, please select—”

Suppressing a curse, I jabbed at the zero. No way in hell was there nobody in that building, even at this hour of the day.

“You have reached the Shark Enterprises main line. Our offices are currently closed but will reopen at eight o’clock a.m. Pacific Time. If you need to reach someone right away—”

Another stab at the zero. I’d talk to someone in person at that damn building, even if I had to call LAFD and have them break the doors in.

After five rings, my anxiety mounted. I was preparing to punch at the zero again, when there was crackling on the line. Not electronic, though. It sounded more like a starving person digging into a bag of chips.

“Hello?” I croaked. “Hello, is someone—”

“Shark Enterprises, security desk,” a bored voice drawled.

“Hi,” I blurted. “Hi. Sorry. Thank you for picking up.” I meant it so completely, I nearly choked on it. “Is this Shark Enterprises?”

“Ma’am, I just said that.”

“Right. You did. Please, I need your help. I really, really need your help. I need to talk to somebody. I need to talk to them now.”

I nearly strung it together as one sentence, though my punctuation could’ve been the hand I pounded at my temple. The throbbing was back in my brain, beckoning me back to the blessed darkness behind my eyelids. I fought it with every strength I had—which wasn’t much.

“The offices are closed right now, ma’am, but I can patch you through to the voice mail—”

“No! No voice mail, please! I’m on a boat in the middle of the Pacific, and this is an emergency.”

“Ah. I’ll patch you through to maritime operations.”

“I don’t need them.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but if you’re on a vessel and this matter is urgent, then you need—”

“Elijah Banks.” I released a breath, wanting to leap in joy that the name had finally slammed my brain. “I—I think he’s on Mr. Shark’s personal team in some capacity.”

“Oh. Then you do need the voice mail dir—”

“No! I fucking need Elijah Banks, on this line, right now!” I yearned to punch a wall, but there was only the damn sky and a hopelessly empty horizon. How the hell had those bastards gotten away so far, so fast? “Please. I’m begging you. This really is an emergency. Lives are stake! You must have Mr. Banks’s direct number there. Can you put down the Doritos for one second and dial it?”

I was going to regret the crack. Damn it, I already did. The guy’s affronted grunt told me as much.

But just as I braced myself for an ear full of dial tone, there was a new sound on the other end of the line. An angry, incessant buzz. A hail that had Doritos king shifting uncomfortably in his chair—cue the squeaky support gears—before huffing even louder at me.

“Hold please,” he mumbled.

I held. For my dear life. For Grant’s too.

The line reengaged with an odd collection of clumsy clicks. Once more I battled the despair of a disconnection, which was surely coming any second. Until…

“Who the fuck is this?”