Chapter 5 - The Price of Loyalty
The pistol skidded across the floorboards, coming to a halt near Callum’s polished leather shoe.
The operative grinned behind his balaclava, shifting his weight while keeping the muzzle pressed firmly against Maeve’s temple. “Smart man, Mr. Vale. Now, kick the box over here.”
Callum didn't move. His dark eyes remained fixed on the man holding Maeve, calculating angles, measuring breathing rates, waiting for a microsecond of distraction.
“I said, kick the box!” the operative yelled, tightening his grip on Maeve’s collar until she gasped for air.
“Let her go first,” Callum said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
“You don't get to bargain—”
Before the man could finish the sentence, a deafening roar tore through the loft from the shattered floor-to-ceiling windows behind them.
Glass exploded inward in a massive wave. A heavy grappling hook slammed into the mahogany desk, trailing a thick nylon rope. Before either Callum or the operative could react, a dark, bulky figure swung through the window frame like a shadow dropped from the sky.
It was Officer Daniel Mercer.
He hit the floor in a rolling tactical tackle, his police-issue Glock already leveled.
“Boston Police! Drop your weapon!” Mercer roared.
Startled by the unexpected arrival of the young cop, the operative instinctively jerked his head toward the window.
That microsecond of distraction was all Callum needed.
Moving with blinding, predatory speed, Callum lunged forward, kicking the heavy iron fireplace poker off its stand with his foot and catching it in his right hand. With a vicious, swinging arc, he brought the heavy iron bar down across the operative’s gun-hand with a sickening crunch of breaking bones.
The man screamed, dropping his weapon as he stumbled backward.
Mercer was there in an instant, driving the butt of his Glock into the side of the operative’s helmet, sending the man crashing unconscious to the floor.
The loft fell instantly silent, save for the howling wind whipping through the shattered windows and the heavy, ragged breathing of the three survivors.
Maeve sank slowly against the brick pillar, her legs finally giving out beneath her. Her whole body shook uncontrollably, the shock of the alleyway attack finally catching up with her adrenaline-fueled terror in the loft.
Callum dropped the iron poker, letting it clatter against the floor, and was beside her in two strides. He knelt down, his hands hovering over her uninjured shoulder before gently pulling her into a protective embrace.
“You’re safe,” he murmured against her hair, his voice rough and uneven for the first time all night. “I’ve got you.”
Mercer kicked the unconscious operative’s weapon away across the floor, then turned back to them, breathing heavily, wiping snow and glass from his jacket.
“I told you calling me was a bad idea, Mr. Vale,” Mercer said, though there was no heat in his voice, only grim adrenaline. “I followed your town car’s GPS ping from the hospital. Figured you weren't driving around Southie on Christmas Eve just to look at the lights.”
Callum looked up, his arm still securely around Maeve. “How many men does Declan have on this?”
“More than just these two,” Mercer said, walking over to the window and peering down into the snowy shipping yard below. “There’s another SUV parked by the gates. And by the sound of those sirens coming up the access road, local patrol units are five minutes out. But they aren't Boston PD—they’re private security paid off by your cousin.”
Callum stood up slowly, helping Maeve to her feet. He walked over to the mahogany desk, snapped the titanium lockbox shut, and tucked Eamon’s journal inside his coat.
“We aren't waiting for Declan’s security team,” Callum said, his eyes flashing with cold, calculated fury.
“Where are we going?” Mercer asked. “The whole city is locked down for the holiday, and your cousin owns half the judiciary in Suffolk County.”
May you like
Callum looked down at Maeve, then back at the young police officer.
“We’re going to pay Declan a visit at his Beacon Hill estate,” Callum said, his voice dropping into a register that promised absolute, unforgiving war. “And he’s going to tell us where my brother’s body is buried.”
