Chapter 9 - The Safehouse
The flashing police lights painted Larkin's face in alternating shades of crimson and blue.
He did not panic, nor did he look toward the window where the FBI was gathering their tactical teams.
He looked only at me, extending his hand for the second time that night.
He promised that he would explain everything, but if the FBI arrested me in this room, I would spend the rest of my life in federal prison.
I looked at the dead body of his cousin, the stolen laptop, and my blood-stained hands.
I had no choice but to take the hand of the man who belonged to the family that ruined mine.
Larkin pulled me to my feet and dragged me toward the heavy oak bookshelf.
He pressed a hidden button beneath the molding, and the entire structure swung open to reveal a dark, narrow corridor.
We slipped into the secret passage just as a SWAT team breached the main doors of the study.
The tunnel was damp and pitch black, smelling of old concrete and copper.
We ran blindly for what felt like miles, my bare feet bleeding from discarding my shoes.
The adrenaline fueled me, masking the pain and the sheer terror of our situation.
We finally emerged in an abandoned subway service station miles away from the Continental Hotel.
A sleek black car was waiting in the shadows, its engine already purring softly.
Larkin drove us furiously through the empty city streets, heading deep into the secluded woods of upstate New York.
We arrived at a massive, isolated cabin fortress surrounded by dense pine trees.
Once inside, Larkin locked the heavy steel doors and engaged a highly advanced security system.
He poured me a glass of water and went into the adjoining bathroom to retrieve a medical kit for my bleeding feet.
I sat alone in the luxurious, dimly lit study of the safehouse, my mind racing with a million chaotic thoughts.
I walked over to the massive mahogany desk, looking for a clean towel.
Instead, I found a thick, red manila folder resting squarely in the center of the leather blotter.
The tab on the folder bore my full legal name.
I opened it, my hands shaking violently as I read the first page of the document.
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It was an assassination protocol authorized by Larkin Steves, dated from three days ago.
The bold red letters across my photograph read: "Asset Compromised - Eliminate."
