Chapter 6 - THE TRAP
Willa didn't hesitate.
She slammed the binder shut, slid her phone into her sweater pocket, and dropped behind the heavy mahogany desk just as the door swung open.
The overhead fluorescent light clicked on with a harsh, buzzing hum.
Through the narrow space between the desk and the leather armchair, Willa saw two pair of shoes step into the room.
One pair was Sterling Kane’s Italian calfskin loafers.
The other pair was dirty, steel-toed work boots—the kind worn by the dock workers down at the river terminal.
"Is the truck ready?" Sterling’s voice was cold, sharp, and entirely devoid of his usual pleasant charm.
"Ready at dock four," a heavy, rough voice replied—Marco, the lieutenant from the chapel. "The Detroit crew is waiting. As soon as the court signs the papers on Thursday morning, we move the thirty million in warehouse inventory before the probate judge even gets his lunch."
"And Everett?" Sterling asked, the sound of a glass bottle clinking against a glass filling the quiet room.
"Whitfield says he can give him the final push on Wednesday night," Marco said, spitting onto the carpet. "Make it look like a quiet cardiac arrest. Respiratory failure. Nobody questions a guy who’s been in a coma for eight months."
"Good," Sterling said, taking a slow sip. "What about the girl?"
"The nurse?" Marco grunted. "Throw her fifty grand and put her on a train out of state. If she makes noise, tell the cops she stole Everett’s wedding ring. With her record, she’ll be in Cook County jail before she can call her mom."
Sterling laughed—a dry, horrible sound that made Willa’s skin crawl.
"Make sure Whitfield finishes the job clean, Marco. I don't want any surprise autopsies. I want him in the ground before Friday."
"Got it, boss."
The sound of their footsteps moved toward the door. The fluorescent light clicked off, and the oak door shut with a heavy thud.
Willa remained motionless behind the desk for three full minutes, her chest heaving, her knuckles white where she gripped her knees.
Wednesday night.
Today was Monday.
They weren't going to wait for the court hearing on Thursday morning. Whitfield was going to kill Everett tomorrow night.
She pulled herself up from behind the desk, her knees shaking so badly she had to hold onto the mahogany edge to keep from falling.
She checked the hallway. It was empty.
She sprinted up the stairs, keeping close to the wall, and burst into Everett’s room, locking the heavy oak door behind her with a sharp turn of the brass key.
She ran to the side of the bed.
"Everett," she whispered urgently, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him gently. "Everett, can you hear me?"
His eyes were closed, but his heart monitor immediately accelerated—beep-beep-beep-beep—hitting ninety-two beats per minute.
"They’re coming for you tomorrow night," she said, her voice shaking with adrenaline. "Whitfield is going to increase the dose. He’s going to kill you."
She grabbed his right hand in both of hers.
"I need you to fight now, Everett. No more small steps. No more waiting. You have to wake up!"
She reached over to the IV pole.
Her hand hovered over the main infusion pump control module.
If she shut down the sedative pump entirely right now, his body would go into immediate, violent drug withdrawal. His blood pressure would skyrocket. He could suffer a seizure or a stroke before his nervous system recovered from eight months of continuous paralysis.
It was a massive, dangerous gamble.
She looked at his face—at the dark scar over his eyebrow, at the hard line of his jaw, at the man who had built an empire along the river and fought three hundred men with his bare hands.
"If I do this," she whispered, her fingers touching the digital key screen, "it’s going to hurt like hell."
She looked into his motionless face.
"Do we do it?"
In the absolute silence of the room, Everett Kane’s right hand didn't just squeeze her fingers.
His wrist rotated. His long, calloused fingers reached up and clamped around her hand with a tight, desperate, iron grip that left no room for doubt.
Willa took a deep breath.
May you like
She reached out her finger and pressed the red button on the module: SYSTEM STOP.
The hum of the infusion pump died instantly.
