Chapter 1 - THE NUMBER HE REMEMBERED
“Phone.”
Hannah stared at him.
Nicholas Vale was barely conscious, burning with fever, bleeding through his trouser leg, and still somehow managed to make the single word sound like an order.
“My phone?”
“Yes.”
“You just told me whoever did this can know I called the police before they arrive.”
“Exactly.”
“That doesn’t make giving you my phone sound smarter.”
His eyes remained on hers.
“Do you want to live?”
Hannah almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because she had spent most of her adult life being told she was reckless, difficult, impulsive, too willing to question authority.
Apparently even half-dead strangers could sense it.
She pulled the phone from her pocket but did not hand it over.
“Who are you calling?”
“One man.”
“Police?”
“No.”
“Ambulance?”
“No.”
“Your wife?”
Something changed in his expression.
“No.”
Hannah crouched beside him.
“Then give me the number.”
His brow tightened.
“You’ll dial it?”
“You can barely hold your own head up.”
For several seconds, Nicholas said nothing.
Then he recited ten digits from memory.
Hannah dialed.
The call rang once.
Twice.
A man answered.
“Hello?”
Nicholas reached for the phone.
Hannah put it on speaker instead.
He looked irritated.
She ignored him.
“The harbor light is out,” Nicholas whispered.
Silence.
Then the voice changed completely.
“Boss?”
Hannah looked at Nicholas.
Boss.
Not sir.
Not Nick.
Boss.
Nicholas closed his eyes.
“Curtis Bay. Eastern refrigeration building. Basement.”
The man on the other end inhaled sharply.
“Are you secure?”
“No.”
“How many?”
“Unknown.”
“Who’s with you?”
Nicholas looked at Hannah.
“A civilian.”
“I’m a cleaner,” Hannah corrected.
The voice heard her.
“Who is she?”
“The reason I’m breathing.”
More silence.
Then:
“We’re twelve minutes out.”
Nicholas’s eyes opened.
“No.”
“Boss—”
“They tracked me once.”
“We swept every vehicle.”
“Doesn’t matter. Assume everything is compromised.”
Hannah looked toward the basement stairs.
She had entered through an unlocked door.
Anyone could walk back in.
Her pulse accelerated.
“What do you want them to do?” she whispered.
Nicholas ignored her.
“Toomey Street,” he told the man. “Old grain terminal. West lot. Two vehicles only. No radios until visual contact.”
“Understood.”
“And Elias?”
“Yes?”
“If Daniel asks where I am…”
Nicholas paused.
“Tell him you found my body.”
The call went silent.
Hannah stared at him.
Finally, the man said, “Understood.”
Nicholas ended the call.
Hannah slowly lowered the phone.
“Who’s Daniel?”
“My brother.”
“You want your brother to think you’re dead?”
“Yes.”
“That is not normal.”
“Neither is waking up chained to a support beam.”
Fair point.
Hannah slipped her phone into her coat.
Nicholas tried to push himself upright.
He made it approximately six inches.
Then his face drained of color.
Hannah caught his shoulder.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
“We have to move.”
“You can’t walk.”
“I can.”
“You can barely lie down successfully.”
His mouth tightened.
Somewhere above them, something scraped.
Both of them froze.
Hannah’s head snapped toward the ceiling.
Nicholas’s hand found her arm.
The weakness vanished from his eyes.
“Lights.”
“What?”
“Turn them off.”
Hannah jumped to the wall and hit the basement switch.
Darkness swallowed them.
The old refrigeration building went silent.
Not peaceful silent.
Listening silent.
Hannah heard Nicholas breathing.
Heard water dripping somewhere behind the support columns.
Heard her own heartbeat.
Then—
A door opened upstairs.
A man’s voice.
“Check downstairs.”
Hannah stopped breathing.
Nicholas whispered, “They came back.”
Boots crossed the floor above them.
One pair.
Maybe two.
A flashlight beam appeared beneath the basement door.
Hannah dropped beside Nicholas.
“What do we do?”
“Leave.”
“Brilliant. Through where?”
He pointed weakly toward the opposite wall.
“Service corridor.”
She could barely make out the shape.
“There’s a wall.”
“Behind shelving.”
“How do you know?”
“I spent three days looking at this room.”
Another footstep.
Closer.
Hannah grabbed her cleaning cart and shoved it toward an old metal shelving unit.
The wheels squealed.
She winced.
Upstairs, the footsteps stopped.
“Did you hear that?”
Hannah’s stomach dropped.
Nicholas forced himself onto one elbow.
“Hurry.”
She wrapped both hands around the shelving and pulled.
Nothing.
She pulled again.
Metal groaned across concrete.
Behind it was a narrow maintenance door painted the same filthy gray as the wall.
Hannah yanked the handle.
Locked.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
The basement door rattled upstairs.
Nicholas reached inside his torn shirt collar.
Nothing.
His expression hardened.
“They took everything.”
Hannah reached for the cleaning cart.
Bleach.
Gloves.
Microfiber cloths.
A screwdriver.
Her eyes stopped.
She grabbed it.
The first man started down the stairs.
Hannah jammed the screwdriver beneath the maintenance latch.
“Come on.”
Nicholas pushed himself toward her.
One stair creaked.
Then another.
“Basement’s dark,” someone whispered.
“Vale’s probably dead.”
Hannah twisted.
The screwdriver slipped.
She tried again.
Nicholas crawled the final distance and put his hand over hers.
“Lower.”
“What?”
“The pressure point. Lower.”
She repositioned the screwdriver.
Twisted.
The latch snapped.
The door opened inward.
“Got it.”
Hannah dragged Nicholas through.
His injured leg caught the threshold.
His jaw clenched, but he made no sound.
She pulled the door shut just as a flashlight beam swept into the basement.
“There!”
Someone shouted.
A gunshot exploded behind them.
The bullet punched through the maintenance door.
Hannah screamed.
Nicholas grabbed her coat.
“Move!”
The corridor was narrow, black and wet.
Hannah got Nicholas’s arm over her shoulders.
He was much heavier than he looked.
Every step became a fight.
Behind them, metal crashed.
The men were through the door.
“Where does this go?”
“Loading dock.”
“How far?”
“Maybe sixty yards.”
“Maybe?”
“I was chained up, Hannah. Nobody gave me a tour.”
Another shot struck the wall.
Concrete dust sprayed Hannah’s hair.
She stopped complaining.
They moved faster.
Nicholas’s bad leg dragged behind him.
Hannah could feel him growing heavier.
“Stay with me.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re fading.”
“I’m conserving conversation.”
“Conserve after we’re alive.”
They reached a fork.
Left.
Right.
Hannah looked at him.
Nicholas pointed left.
“Air.”
She felt it too.
Cold.
Fresh.
They turned.
Twenty feet ahead, faint moonlight came through a broken loading door.
Freedom.
Then Nicholas collapsed.
Hannah nearly went down with him.
“Nicholas.”
“Go.”
She stared at him.
“What?”
“They don’t know who you are yet.”
“You think I’m leaving you here?”
“Yes.”
“That was stupid before you said it.”
“They’ll kill you.”
“They’ll kill you.”
“That’s different.”
“Only if you’re a narcissist.”
A flashlight appeared at the corridor bend.
Hannah bent down.
“Get up.”
“Hannah—”
“I lost one patient because powerful men decided the truth was inconvenient.”
The words came out before she could stop them.
Nicholas looked at her.
Something changed.
She got his arm around her neck.
“I’m not losing another because he’s stubborn.”
He pushed.
She lifted.
Together they staggered toward the door.
The flashlight behind them grew brighter.
A man shouted.
Hannah threw her weight forward.
They burst into the freezing Baltimore night.
Her cleaning company van sat twenty yards away.
Bright white.
Ridiculously visible.
Hannah dug for the keys.
Nicholas glanced behind them.
“Hurry.”
“You shouting that definitely helps.”
She unlocked the passenger door.
“Get in.”
He tried.
His leg buckled.
Hannah shoved him from behind.
Nicholas Vale, feared by half the eastern seaboard, landed face-first across the passenger seat of a janitorial van smelling like lemon disinfectant.
Under different circumstances, Hannah might have enjoyed that.
She ran around the hood.
A bullet shattered the rear window.
Glass exploded across the seats.
Hannah ducked, screamed, and hit the ignition.
The engine coughed.
“No.”
She turned again.
Nothing.
Footsteps ran toward them.
Nicholas reached underneath the passenger seat.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking.”
“For what?”
“Anything useful.”
“This is a cleaning van!”
His hand emerged holding a tire iron.
Hannah stared at it.
Nicholas raised one eyebrow.
“I’ve had worse.”
The engine caught.
Hannah slammed the van into reverse.
A man appeared behind them.
She accelerated.
He jumped out of the way.
Another man fired.
The side mirror disappeared.
Hannah spun the wheel, shifted into drive, and shot through the broken fence.
Nicholas collapsed against the seat.
“Where?”
“Toomey Street.”
“I heard you.”
His eyes closed.
“Stay awake.”
No response.
“Nicholas.”
Nothing.
She slapped his shoulder.
His head rolled toward her.
His lips had lost color.
“Oh, no.”
Hannah pressed two fingers against his neck while driving.
Pulse.
Too fast.
His breathing had become shallow.
The infection.
Dehydration.
Blood loss.
Three days chained upright.
He was crashing.
“You said no hospital,” she whispered. “Fine.”
She grabbed her phone and called the last person in Baltimore who still answered when Hannah Brooks called after midnight.
A woman answered on the fourth ring.
“Hannah?”
“Lena, I need your back room.”
Silence.
“Hannah, it’s one-thirty in the morning.”
“I know.”
“What happened?”
“I found somebody.”
“That sentence never ends well with you.”
“He’s septic or getting there. Gunshot or stab wound in the thigh. Severe dehydration. Possible kidney injury. I need fluids, antibiotics, dressings, and somebody whose license hasn’t been destroyed.”
Another pause.
Then Dr. Lena Ortiz said, “Bring him.”
Hannah hung up.
Nicholas’s eyes opened slightly.
“Who?”
“A doctor.”
“No hospital?”
“No hospital.”
He watched her for a second.
“Why did you lose your license?”
She tightened her hands around the steering wheel.
“Not tonight.”
“Patient died?”
Her jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“Your fault?”
The question hurt more than it should have.
“No.”
Nicholas kept looking at her.
For some reason, she added, “But powerful people made sure everybody thought it was.”
He closed his eyes.
“What was the patient’s name?”
Hannah almost refused.
Then she said it.
“Joseph Rourke.”
Nicholas’s eyes opened instantly.
Every trace of exhaustion disappeared.
“What did you say?”
“Joseph Rourke.”
“Victor Rourke’s brother?”
Hannah looked at him.
“I don’t know who Victor is.”
Nicholas struggled upright despite the pain.
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
“What did Joseph say before he died?”
Hannah’s fingers went cold.
It was a detail she had never put in the official report.
Because Frank Delaney, her supervisor, had stood over her at the station afterward and told her she had misunderstood a dying man.
Then the recording had vanished.
Then her career had vanished.
“Hannah.”
She swallowed.
“He grabbed my uniform.”
“What did he say?”
Her voice dropped.
“He said somebody named Daniel had sold him out.”
Nicholas went absolutely still.
Outside, the harbor lights streaked across the windshield.
Hannah looked toward him.
“Why?”
Nicholas’s face had changed.
The wounded man was gone.
The feverish prisoner was gone.
For the first time, Hannah saw the man forty armed men had been searching for.
Cold.
Focused.
May you like
Dangerous.
“Because,” Nicholas said, “Daniel Vale is my brother.”
