“Don’t forget your place,” the General spat.
Poe laughed. “I have many places. My favorite is the top of the dog pile.”
“Do not step foot inside the Michigan border. I gave you the FEMA camps. I gave you Illinois. Hell, I even let you have Indiana—”
“I have enough cornfields already. And I took Illinois and Indiana myself.”
“Do not make light of this!”
A pause. When he spoke, Poe’s voice was silky smooth. “I so enjoy these little chats.”
“I mean it. I can still cut you down to size.”
“Goodbye, Byron.”
“Don’t you dare—！”
Before the General could finish his sentence, Poe hung up on him.
Incensed, the General spun and hurled the sat phone across the room. It struck the wall beside the door and fell to the carpet with a dull thud.
Baxter, who’d been hovering anxiously in the doorway, ducked with a whimpered gasp.
His bodyguards didn’t flinch.
The General longed to strangle Poe’s elegant throat with his bare hands. Or execute him with a well-placed bullet to the skull.
Poe was more than a problem. He was getting out of hand.
The General wasn’t prepared to act yet. There were still moves to make, pieces to adjust. His legacy orchestrated to perfection. He wasn’t ready.
“Sir—” Baxter stammered.
“What do you want?” He spoke between gritted teeth, struggling to maintain his temper. “Can’t you see that I’m busy!”
“Gibbs sent me, sir.”
With great effort, he reined in his emotions. His men should see him as a leader in the utmost control of everything around him—including himself. “Come in.”
Baxter scurried into the room, his head bobbing, eyes darting back and forth like another phone might fly out of nowhere and strike him in the head.
“The assault team is preparing to depart for their mission. They’ve debriefed the new asset—James Luther. They have the intel they need to proceed.”
The General released a tension-filled breath. He placed the empty glass on the marble windowsill and returned his attention to the view outside his suite.
The sun had sunk below the horizon. The sky took on the hue of a purplish-blue bruise.
Deep shadows stretched across the carpeted floor.
At least there was this.
The General turned to Baxter. “Remember, don’t touch Winter Haven. Make sure they’re discreet.”
Baxter bobbed his head. “Of course.”
The General thought of his daughter. “Tell Gibbs to send them.”
28
Hannah
Day One Hundred and Ten
Hannah awoke to silence.
Her eyes snapped open. She stared straight up into the darkness hovering above her, blinking groggily.
She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and stuck her bare feet into the slippers on the floor.
Her heart felt like it was about to pound right out of her chest. Her pulse thudded, her palms damp. She strained her ears, listening.
Sometimes, she woke still imprisoned in Pike’s basement. The terror thick in her throat, clawing at her ribs. The lumpy mattress beneath her, the cold barren walls, the bars over the tiny window.
Trapped.
She wasn’t trapped anymore.
Yet the old fear caught her like a fish on a hook, and she couldn’t escape it.
She blinked again to bring the details of the bedroom into focus. Dresser. Open closet door. Chair in the corner. Nightstand.
She checked the watch on the nightstand beside her pistol. 1:10 a.m.
Movement by the door snagged her eye.
Her heart jerked in her chest.
A white shadow crystalized in the heavy darkness—fuzzy white fur, pricked ears, the long stiff tail.
Ghost crouched at the bedroom door.
Her brain registered his low, barely perceptible growl. A rumble vibrated deep in his chest. She felt it in her own chest cavity. A warning.
The fear wouldn’t dissipate. A dread like worms wriggled in her belly.
The children. She needed to check on the children.
Hannah grasped the Ruger in both hands, flicked off the safety and nestled the butt in the curved palm of her bad hand to steady her aim. Her fingers trembled, but her movements were practiced and efficient. She’d repeated this very act a thousand times.
She padded to the door and slid it open with her foot. It creaked loud in the deafening silence.
Ahead of her, Ghost growled.
Ghost could feel it, too. She might not always trust her own instincts, but she trusted Ghost one hundred percent.
Something was wrong.