The words hung in the damp Portland air like a falling guillotine blade. "They know about him." My breath hitched. The background hum of the farmers market—the chatter of tourists, the clinking of mason jars, the distant strumming of an acoustic guitar—vanished, replaced by the deafening roar of my own terror.

The panic room was pitch black until I hit the emergency toggle on the wall, bathing the small, steel-lined chamber in a dim, amber glow.

I set Noah down on a cot, locking the heavy deadbolt from the inside with shaking hands.

"Mama, what’s that loud noise? Are we playing hide and seek?" Noah sobbed, his small body trembling as he buried his face in his blue rabbit.

"Yes, baby, a very important game," I lied, my voice cracking as I knelt beside him and forced a shaky smile. "I need you to stay right here, put your hands over your ears, and close your eyes. Can you do that for Mama?"

"Promise you won't leave me?"

"I promise," I whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead while my heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

I turned away, my eyes locking onto the live security feed built into the wall console.

Outside in the main warehouse, the battle was raging.

Marcus was pinned behind a concrete pillar, returning fire with an assault rifle, while Daniel moved through the shadows like a ghost, his Glock flashing in the dim light. Two of Vance’s hitmen were already down, bleeding out on the concrete. But more were pouring through the breached entrance.

And leading them was Julian.

The traitor stood near the catwalk, holding a tactical shotgun, shouting orders to the remaining mercenaries.

"Flush him out! Vance wants the boss alive, but the woman and the brat can come back in pieces!" Julian roared over the din of gunfire.

My blood ran cold. They want Noah.

Suddenly, the screen flickered. A massive explosion rocked the west wing of the warehouse, and the camera feed showing Daniel’s sector went completely black.

"Daniel!" I screamed at the blank screen, banging my fist against the steel wall.

Without thinking, I spun around and looked at the heavy emergency exit lever near the back of the panic room—the one leading to the escape tunnel and the boat.

I could take Noah right now. I could get on that boat, motor down the river into the Pacific fog, and run away again. I could be safe.

But Daniel would be dead.

The man who had just looked at our son with a desperate, fierce love—the man who was taking bullets to keep us breathing—was out there alone against a firing squad.

I looked back at Noah, who was huddled on the cot with his eyes squeezed shut, whispering to his stuffed rabbit.