Chapter 4 - The Iron Knock
Three black SUV’s blocked the narrow Chicago street, their high-beams cutting through the fog and painting the brick facade of the apartment building in blinding white light.
Doors clicked open in unison.
Six men in tailored charcoal suits stepped out onto the pavement. They moved with the silent, practiced precision of a military unit, fanning out instantly to secure the perimeter. Alleyways were blocked, back exits covered, fire escapes checked.
In the center of them walked Gideon Locke.
He wore a dark wool overcoat that fell past his knees, his gloved hands shoved deep into his pockets. His jaw was set like iron, and his dark eyes swept up toward the second-floor windows.
“Marcus,” Gideon said quietly without breaking his stride.
“Front door is bolted from the inside, Boss,” Marcus reported, tapping his earpiece. “Fire escape window is latched. Standard cheap deadbolt on unit 2W.”
“Don’t pick it,” Gideon said as he mounted the concrete steps of the building. “Let them know we’re coming.”
Marcus nodded. He signaled to two of the massive guards flanking him.
When they reached the second-floor landing outside Apartment 2W, Marcus didn't bother knocking with his knuckles. He raised his boot and delivered a single, devastating kick directly beside the brass doorknob.
The heavy wooden frame splintered with a sound like a gunshot. The lock mechanism sheared off completely, and the door flew inward, crashing against the interior wall with enough force to knock a framed painting crooked.
Inside the apartment, the television fell silent entirely.
Tyler stumbled out of the living room, beer bottle in hand, his face pale with shock and sudden terror. “What the—who the hell are you people? I’m calling the cops—"
He stopped talking when Gideon Locke stepped across the threshold.
Gideon didn't look at Tyler. His gaze bypassed the panicked man entirely, locking immediately onto the floor where Harper lay pale, shivering, and bleeding beside the kitchen counter.
For a fraction of a second, the look in Gideon’s eyes mirrored the exact night he had found Clara.
Then the ice returned.
“Marcus,” Gideon said softly, his voice cutting through the ringing silence of the room. “Take the trash out.”
Before Tyler could raise his hands, before he could drop his beer bottle, Marcus and two other guards were across the room. Marcus caught Tyler by the throat and the belt, lifting the grown man off his feet with casual strength and slamming him face-first against the living room wall.
The beer bottle shattered on the floor, foaming amber liquid mingling with the broken glass.
“Let me go! Do you know who I am?” Tyler choked out, his legs kicking frantically in the air. “I’ll sue you! I’ll—"
“You won’t do anything,” Gideon said, walking slowly into the kitchen. His leather shoes clicked against the linoleum, stopping just inches from Harper’s outstretched hand.
Harper looked up, her vision blurring from pain and exhaustion, staring at the tall, imposing figure towering over her. He didn't look like a savior from a fairy tale. He looked like an executioner.
“Are you...” Harper swallowed hard, her voice a dry rasp. “Are you the stranger?”
Gideon crouched down beside her, ignoring the dust and the blood on the floor. He pulled off his leather gloves, sliding them into his coat pocket, and reached out. For a moment, she thought he was going to touch her broken leg, and she flinched.
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Instead, Gideon very gently slid his hand beneath her shoulders, supporting her upper body so she wasn't lying flat against the freezing floor.
“I’m the person who answers texts,” Gideon said quietly, his dark eyes searching her face. “And your leg is broken.”
