"Four days," Lincoln Frost said. His voice was raspy, stripped of its usual authority, like iron dragged across stone. "Four days and nights. Every time I close my eyes, the room starts spinning. Not from the blood loss. From the silence."

Delia gripped the passenger handle so hard her knuckles turned white. Her phone was clutched in her other hand, dialing Naomi’s number over and over again, listening to the hollow, agonizing ring tone with no answer.

"Pick up, please pick up," she sobbed under her breath, tears of pure terror blurring her vision.

"He won't answer her phone," Lincoln said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, jaw clenched so tight a vein throbbed violently at his temple. "Garrett has her phone blocked or confiscated."

"If anything happens to her—" Delia started, her voice breaking.

"Nothing will happen to her," Lincoln interrupted, his voice cutting through the panic with absolute, unshakeable steel. "I built that penthouse. Every security protocol, every reinforced wall, every panic room. If Garrett tries to trigger explosives remotely, there's a dampener system in the sub-basement that buys us three minutes."

"Three minutes isn't enough!"

"It is when I'm driving," Lincoln snarled, shifting down a gear as he took a ninety-degree turn on two wheels, sending the car screaming toward the river towers.

They pulled into the underground garage of the glass tower three minutes later. The tires smoked against the concrete floor as Lincoln killed the engine before the car had even fully stopped.

"Stay behind me," Lincoln ordered, drawing his concealed pistol with his left hand, wincing slightly as the motion pulled at his freshly stitched arm.

"Like hell I am," Delia said, pulling a heavy steel wrench from the floor storage compartment of the car. "She's my niece."

They burst into the private elevator. Lincoln slammed his palm against the override keypad, punching in a twelve-digit code. The elevator rocketed upward so fast Delia’s stomach slammed against her ribs.

Ding.

The doors slid open to the penthouse suite.

Silence. Eerie, suffocating silence.

The glass windows overlooking the city were intact, but the interior was bathed in the red flashing light of an automated security lockdown.

"Naomi!" Delia screamed, sprinting down the hallway toward the guest rooms.

"Delia, wait—!" Lincoln shouted, sweeping his gun from side to side.

Suddenly, a small figure darted out from the linen closet near the kitchen.

"Aunt Delia!"

"Naomi!"

Delia dropped her wrench, fell to her knees, and scooped the eight-year-old girl into her arms, crushing her against her chest as sobs wracked her entire body. Naomi buried her face in Delia’s neck, shaking but unharmed.

"Are you okay? Did he hurt you?" Delia checked her arms, her face, her hands frantically.

"A nice bald man put us in a big steel room and locked the door," Naomi whispered, pointing toward the heavy titanium panic room built into the master suite wall. "He said bad men were coming."

Bruno stepped out from the panic room corridor, lowering his weapon, looking pale with relief. "I secured them the second Garrett’s comms went red. The bomb signal was intercepted by the building's Faraday cage. The explosives never detonated."

Delia closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against Naomi's hair, letting out a long, ragged breath that felt like being born again.

Footsteps echoed from the main entrance foyer.

Lincoln turned sharply, raising his pistol, but it was only one of his regional lieutenants dragging a bruised and battered man across the marble floor.

It was Garrett Mallory.

The getaway car hadn't made it three blocks before Bruno’s backup intercepted it at the bridge.

Garrett was thrown to his knees right at Lincoln Frost’s feet. His expensive suit was torn, his nose bleeding, his polished smile completely gone, replaced by a mask of sheer terror.

"Mr. Frost... please," Garrett whimpered, pressing his palms together. "Victor Vance forced me! He has my family—he said if I didn't help him ruin you, they would—"

Lincoln didn't say a word. He walked slowly toward Garrett, the shadow of his massive frame swallowing the kneeling traitor whole. He didn't raise his gun. He simply stood over him like an executioner waiting for the verdict.

"You touched a child, Garrett," Lincoln said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. "And you betrayed the only people who ever walked into my world and tried to keep me alive."