Chapter 2 - Blood on the Salt FlatsThe Narragansett salt flats were a wasteland of gray mud, rusted machinery, and biting ocean winds that carried the smell of rotting kelp and diesel fuel.
Adrian’s convoy of three black SUVs tore through the dirt access road, their tires throwing up sprays of mud and gravel. In the passenger seat, Lucas sat clutching his bandaged shoulder, his face pale with pain but his eyes sharp as broken glass.
"Checkpoints?" Adrian asked, his voice dead flat.
"Cleared," Lucas said, racking the slide of his submachine gun. "Grant thinks you’re still at the estate reviewing paperwork with Roland Pierce. They didn’t expect us to move this fast."
"They don't know about the pregnancy test," Adrian said.
The words tasted like ash. Every time he thought of that pink-and-white plastic stick—of the two blue lines representing a life he had nearly thrown into the abyss—a cold, homicidal fury seized his chest. If Grant or Roland had touched a hair on Elena’s head, the salt flats wouldn't just be a wasteland; they would be a mass grave.
The SUVs screeched to a halt behind a rusted corrugated steel warehouse.
Adrian kicked his door open before the vehicle had fully stopped. The howling wind whipped his heavy wool coat around his legs as he strode toward the warehouse doors. Two armed guards standing outside didn't even have time to reach for their sidearms.
Lucas and the tactical team moved like shadows. Two silenced cracks echoed over the sound of the wind, and the guards dropped silently into the mud.
Adrian didn't break stride. He slammed his boot against the side door of the warehouse.
Bang.
The lock shattered, and the heavy metal door flew inward.
Inside, under the harsh glare of flickering halogen drop-lights, stood Elena.
She was tied to a wooden chair, her hands bound behind her back with heavy zip-ties. Her dark hair was still damp from the hurricane, and a dark bruise bloomed along her left jawline. But her chin was lifted in that exact, defiant angle that had haunted Adrian since Thursday night.
Standing beside her, holding a suppressed pistol inches from her temple, was Grant Mercer.
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And sitting calmly on a folding metal chair nearby, sipping black coffee from a styrofoam cup, was Roland Pierce.
"Well, well," Grant said, his smile thin and venomous. "The king arrives. And right on schedule."
