Chapter 9 - The Crest on the Window
The rain beat a frantic, rhythmic tattoo against the grimy wired-glass of the warehouse door as I stared out at the idling black limousine in the lot.
The family crest gleaming on the rear passenger door wasn’t Lincoln’s, nor was it anything associated with Garrett’s corporate syndicate. It was a silver, intricate interlocking set of initials that I hadn’t seen since the morning my parents' estate was liquidated three years ago.
A.S.
Arthur Sterling.
My breath caught in my throat. The same Arthur Sterling who was currently sitting in a federal holding cell across town after trying to poison Elena Vance and loot her trust. Or... was he?
“Lincoln,” I whispered, grabbing his sleeve. “Look at that crest.”
Lincoln slowly eased his weight off Garrett’s throat, letting the gasping man slump against the metal door, and turned his gaze toward the window. The moment his eyes registered the emblem on the limousine door, every muscle in his towering frame locked into statuesque rigidity.
“Arthur,” Lincoln murmured, the name dropping like a chunk of dry ice.
Inside the limousine, the tinted rear window rolled down an inch. A gloved hand emerged, tossing a small, blinking metallic device onto the wet gravel—a burner phone that began to buzz aggressively against the stones.
Bruno dropped down from the catwalk, jogging over with his weapon ready. “Boss, should I light up the vehicle?”
“No,” Lincoln said, his voice cold and absolute. He turned back to Garrett, grabbing him by the lapels of his ruined suit and hauling him upright with one hand. “Your boss is abandoning you, Garrett. He never intended for you to survive this audit.”
Garrett didn’t scream or fight. He just stared blankly at the floor, laughing softly through his bleeding lip. “We all work for the same portfolio, Lincoln. You think you built this city? You just rented space in it.”
Lincoln shoved Garrett hard into Bruno’s custody. “Lock him in the lower holding cell at the penthouse. Make sure federal marshals are notified for an immediate transfer at dawn.”
“On it, boss,” Bruno grunted, hauling the semi-conscious man toward the rear exit.
Lincoln didn’t waste another second. He grabbed my hand, his fingers warm and fiercely protective, and pulled me toward the side door. We stepped out into the pouring rain just as the black limousine’s tires spun gravel, accelerating rapidly down the pier toward the city skyline.
The buzzing burner phone lay abandoned in the mud a few feet away.
I looked up at Lincoln, the rain plastering my dark hair against my cheeks. “Arthur is supposed to be locked up downtown. How is his vehicle here?”
“Because men like Arthur Sterling don't go to federal holding cells,” Lincoln said grimly, his jaw tight as he stared down at the buzzing phone. “They send doubles, or they buy the wardens before the ink on the warrant dries.”
He walked over, bent down, and picked up the burner phone. The screen flashed with a single incoming text message from an unknown number:
“You found the janitor, Lincoln. Come find the architect. Suite 800, Grand Regency Hotel. Midnight.”
My breath hitched audibly.
May you like
The Grand Regency. The exact luxury hotel where I had worked as a housekeeper three weeks ago—before I was fired, before I met Lincoln, and before my entire world was turned upside down.
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