Chapter 2 - ONE HUNDRED BLACK SUVS
Harper woke at 6:17 the next morning because the building had gone silent.
Not quiet.
Silent.
There was a difference.
Her radiator had stopped knocking. The garbage truck that usually screamed down the street before sunrise was absent. Even Mr. Alvarez’s ancient television in the apartment below had disappeared into nothing.
Then came three knocks.
Slow.
Evenly spaced.
Harper sat upright.
Another three knocks followed.
She reached beneath the couch cushion and closed her fingers around the small canister of pepper spray she had bought after leaving Roman.
“Who is it?”
“Mrs. Chen.”
Harper exhaled and opened the door.
Her sixty-eight-year-old landlord stood in the hallway wearing pink slippers and a robe decorated with cartoon strawberries.
Mrs. Chen looked terrified.
“You have company.”
Harper frowned.
“What?”
Mrs. Chen pointed toward the stairwell.
Harper walked to the front window.
Then she forgot how to breathe.
Black SUVs filled the street.
Not ten.
Not twenty.
They stretched in both directions, bumper to bumper, glossy black vehicles occupying every available space from one intersection to the next.
Men in dark suits stood beside them.
Neighbors watched from windows.
A delivery cyclist had stopped in the middle of the road.
Someone across the street was filming.
Harper counted until counting became ridiculous.
There might actually have been one hundred.
“Oh, you narcissistic psychopath.”
She ran downstairs.
Mrs. Chen called after her.
Harper ignored her.
The front door slammed against brick as she marched onto the sidewalk wearing sweatpants, sneakers, and an oversized college sweatshirt.
A man stepped forward.
Marco Bellini.
Roman’s security chief.
He was six-foot-four, permanently expressionless, and had once broken a man’s wrist because the man touched Roman’s car without permission.
“Morning, Harper.”
“What is this?”
Marco glanced at the SUVs.
“Transportation.”
“For what, an invasion?”
“Possibly.”
“Where is Roman?”
Marco pointed.
The rear door of the vehicle directly across from her opened.
Roman stepped out.
Harper almost laughed.
He wore a charcoal overcoat over a black suit. His hair was perfectly styled. His shoes looked recently polished.
He had apparently prepared for a board meeting.
Harper looked down at herself.
One sock had tiny yellow ducks printed on it.
She hated him more for noticing.
His eyes moved to the sock.
“Don’t.”
“I said nothing.”
“You were about to.”
Roman approached.
Harper folded her arms.
“If you bought my building, I’m setting something on fire.”
“I did not buy your building.”
“Did you get me fired from the job I don’t have?”
“No.”
“Freeze my bank account?”
“No.”
“Kidnap my dentist?”
Roman’s eyebrow moved.
“Why would I kidnap your dentist?”
“You’re dramatic.”
“That accusation is interesting from a woman shouting on a sidewalk in duck socks.”
Harper pointed at the endless convoy.
“You brought one hundred black SUVs to my apartment.”
“Ninety-eight.”
“That is worse somehow.”
A tiny movement appeared at the corner of Marco’s mouth.
Roman noticed.
Marco immediately became stone again.
Harper stepped closer.
“What do you want?”
The humor disappeared from Roman’s face.
“Someone accessed the financial archive yesterday using your credentials.”
Harper stopped.
“I resigned yesterday.”
“I know.”
“At what time?”
“11:42 p.m.”
“I was asleep.”
“I know that too.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“How?”
Roman did not answer.
Harper stared at him.
“You still have surveillance on me.”
“Security.”
“Surveillance.”
“Semantics.”
“Toxic.”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
She almost enjoyed that.
Then he handed her a photograph.
Harper looked down.
It showed a grainy security image of someone entering Roman’s restricted records room.
A woman.
Approximately Harper’s height.
Dark hair.
Gray blazer.
Her gray blazer.
Harper’s stomach turned.
“That isn’t me.”
“I know.”
She looked up sharply.
“You know?”
Roman nodded.
“You tilt your right shoulder when you walk because you carry your tablet on that side. This woman doesn’t.”
For several seconds Harper could only stare at him.
He had noticed that?
“Then why are you here?”
“Because whoever used your identity wanted me to believe it was you.”
Roman glanced down the street.
“And twenty minutes after the breach, someone placed a contract on your life.”
The morning suddenly felt colder.
Harper’s fingers tightened around the photograph.
“How much?”
“Two million.”
Her throat became dry.
“For an assistant?”
“For someone who supposedly stole information capable of collapsing my organization.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know.”
Harper looked at the men around them.
Understanding arrived.
The SUVs were not intimidation.
They were protection.
That somehow made her angrier.
“You could have called.”
“You turned off your phone.”
“You could have sent Marco.”
“I did.”
Marco lifted one hand slightly.
“And ninety-seven of his closest friends?”
Roman’s expression remained unreadable.
“I didn’t know how many people were coming to kill you.”
Harper stared at him.
The absurdity of the sentence nearly made her laugh.
Instead, she said, “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Roman moved closer.
“Harper.”
“No.”
“Someone copied your office credentials, wore your clothing, accessed a secured archive, and placed your name beside stolen information worth tens of millions of dollars.”
“I heard you.”
“They know where you live.”
“So apparently does every SUV manufacturer in New York.”
“Harper.”
Something in his voice changed.
Not command.
Fear.
She had never heard fear from Roman Rossi.
His gaze moved briefly toward the roof across the street.
Marco saw it too.
Everything happened at once.
“Down!”
Roman slammed into Harper.
A window shattered behind them.
Harper hit the sidewalk beneath Roman’s weight as security men drew weapons and rushed toward the buildings.
People screamed.
A second crack echoed between the apartments.
Roman dragged Harper behind the SUV.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
His hands moved over her shoulders, arms, neck.
“Roman.”
“Are you hit?”
“I said no!”
He stopped.
His face was inches from hers.
For the first time in two years, Harper saw something beneath the control.
Not pride.
Not anger.
Raw terror.
A small line of blood ran from Roman’s temple where broken glass had cut him.
Harper touched it without thinking.
He froze.
Their eyes met.
Then Marco opened the SUV door.
“We need to move.”
Roman pushed Harper inside.
She resisted.
“My landlord.”
“Already covered.”
“My neighbors.”
“Covered.”
“My apartment—”
“Harper.”
Roman climbed in beside her.
“You can hate me when you’re alive.”
The door slammed.
The convoy began moving.
Harper watched her building disappear behind tinted glass.
Her old life vanished with it.
Roman sat beside her, blood still running down his face.
Harper looked at the photograph again.
The woman wearing her blazer.
Then she noticed something.
A reflection in the archive-room glass.
A man stood outside the frame.
Only his hand was visible.
On one finger was a distinctive silver ring.
Harper knew that ring.
She had seen it every Tuesday for two years.
Her pulse accelerated.
Roman noticed.
“What?”
Harper enlarged the photograph.
“Your traitor isn’t outside the organization.”
She turned the screen toward him.
“He sits at your table every week.”
Roman looked at the ring.
For the first time that morning, his face lost all color.
“Impossible.”
Harper swallowed.
“No.”
May you like
She stared at the familiar hand.
“It’s your brother.”
