Then Stellan took the phone from her hand.

“What did they say?”

She looked at him.

If she told him, he would come with an army.

The Russians would see him.

Jessup would die.

Her brother, who had taught her to check under her car in winter, who brought soup when she had the flu, who never trusted Grant and hated himself for not dragging her away sooner.

“I need the bathroom,” she said.

Stellan’s eyes narrowed.

“Nola.”

“Please.”

Something in the word made him step back.

She walked out of the study slowly, turned down the hall, and kept walking.

Pain flared through her ribs with every step.

She found the mudroom, pulled on a heavy coat, shoved her feet into boots, and slipped through the side door into the garage.

Most of Stellan’s cars were locked.

Of course they were.

At the far end sat a catering van from that morning’s supply delivery.

Keys in the ignition.

A stupid miracle.

Nola climbed in, gasping as pain tore through her side, started the engine, and reversed before courage could turn into thought.

In the mirror, Brogan spun from the front gate.

He shouted.

Reached for his weapon.

The van fishtailed over frozen gravel and burst through the gate before it fully closed.

Nola drove toward the port with both hands locked on the wheel.

The Delaware waterfront in winter looked like the end of the world.

Shipping containers stacked like rusted tombs. Cranes skeletal against a gray sky. Dirty snow pushed into black piles beside the road. Wind came off the river sharp enough to steal breath from lungs that already hurt.

She parked near Pier 17.

Stepped out.

“I’m here!” she shouted into the wind. “Let him go!”

Warehouse nine opened.

Grant Harlow stepped out.

For a moment, she barely recognized him.

No polished suit. No courtroom calm. His collar hung open, eyes wild, hair disordered. The golden attorney had peeled away, revealing the frantic animal beneath.

Three men in leather jackets flanked him.

Behind them, in the shadowed warehouse, Nola saw a body tied to a chair.

“Nola,” Grant said, spreading his arms. “You look terrible. Has that animal been feeding you?”

“Where is my brother?”

“Alive. Bruised. Nothing compared to the embarrassment you’ve caused me.”

He walked closer.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? My clients are angry. My firm is asking questions. The police are watching me. And worst of all, that thug Cain thinks he can take what belongs to me.”

“I don’t belong to you.”

Grant smiled.

“There she is. So brave with someone else’s men outside the door.”

“You stole my identity.”

His smile faded.

“You put forty million dollars in my name without my knowledge.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face.

Then admiration.

God help her, admiration.

“I always said you were sharper than you let on.”

“You said I was unstable.”

“Same thing, depending who’s listening.”

He stepped closer.

“The accounts are yours. The Russians need authorization. You sign, I get my life back, Jessup walks away.”

“Liar.”

“Probably.” His eyes hardened. “But if you don’t sign, he dies in front of you.”

He grabbed her arm.

The same bruised arm.

She twisted against him.

“Get off me.”

Grant raised his hand to strike.

A suppressed crack split the cold air.

Grant’s palm erupted.

Blood sprayed across the snow.

He dropped to his knees, screaming.

A voice came from the maze of containers.

Low.

Unhurried.

Cold enough to freeze the river.

“She said get off.”

Stellan Cain stepped from the shadows wearing a tactical vest over his suit, rifle held with lethal ease.

He was not alone.

Men emerged from rooftops, crane platforms, between containers. Red laser dots appeared on the chests of the Russians before they could draw weapons.

Brogan was there, face murderous.

Nola stared at Stellan.

“You followed me.”

“You stole a catering van with fractured ribs.”

“That’s not an answer.”

His eyes blazed.

“You ran.”

“They had Jessup.”

“You thought I wouldn’t find him first?”

Before she could answer, he gestured.

Brogan and two men breached the side entrance.

Moments later, they came out supporting Jessup, bloodied, limping, alive.

Nola ran to him.

The pain in her ribs vanished under relief.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, arms around him as gently as she could manage. “I’m so sorry.”

Jessup coughed.

“Not your fault.” His swollen eyes shifted toward Stellan’s men. “Whoever these guys are, I like them better than your boyfriend.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Nola. There are rifles.”

Then Grant screamed one word.

A name.

A signal.

The warehouse exploded.

Heat slammed into the pier.

The world went white.

Nola hit the ground hard enough to lose breath she did not have. Stellan’s body covered hers before debris rained down, his arm over her head, his voice in her ear.

“Stay with me.”

Gunfire erupted from the east side of the docks.

A second wave.

Ilya Zakharov had not trusted Grant to handle the meeting alone.

He had brought his own army.

Smoke swallowed the pier. Muzzle flashes strobed through the gray like angry lightning. Men shouted in Russian. Brogan’s voice crackled through Stellan’s earpiece.

“Pinned at east gate. Thermal optics closing. They’re pushing us to the water.”

Stellan pulled Nola to her feet.

“Can you run?”

“No.”

He looked at her.

“Yes.”

She ran.

Pain burned through her with every step, but she ran between stacks of containers while bullets sparked off steel. Stellan fired behind them, pulling her into the shadows, moving like someone who knew exactly how death entered a space and how to deny it the room.

They reached a dead end near the crane controls.

Water behind them.

Containers to one side.

Smoke ahead.

Nowhere left.

Then Nola saw the control panel.