PART 2:

“Oh no.” From the three SUVs, heavy doors swung open. Out stepped men who did not belong in a Hoboken diner. They wore identical charcoal suits, dark raincoats, and earpieces. They didn’t move like street thugs or gangsters. They moved with terrifying synchronized military precision. They spread out, securing the perimeter of the building.

These weren’t cops. They were operatives from Vanguard Solutions, a shadow corporate private military contractor that Jonathan Reed had kept on a multi-million dollar retainer. They were fixers, cleaners, the kind of men who made problems disappear and left no paperwork behind. “They found me.” Vivian whispered, hyperventilating.

The diner felt like it was shrinking, the walls closing in. “How did they find me?” Harrison casually picked up a napkin and began wiping the spilled coffee from Vivian’s side of the table. He didn’t look out the window. “Facial recognition on the street cameras, probably. Or they pinged the RFID chip in your fancy shoes.

People with money always forget their accessories are trackers.” Vivian stared at him, bewildered by his calm. “Did you not hear me? They are going to kill me. And if you are sitting next to me, they will kill you, too.” “Harper.” Harrison said, his voice entirely devoid of panic. “Headphones, sweetie.” The little girl didn’t argue.

She reached into her father’s battered canvas jacket, pulled out a pair of heavy noise-canceling headphones, and slipped them over her ears. She tapped the screen of her iPad, completely tuning out the world. Harrison then stood up and slid into Vivian’s booth, sitting right next to her. “What are you doing?” Vivian hissed, shrinking against the window.

“Blending your profile.” Harrison said quietly, keeping his eyes on the menu. “If they see a lone woman in expensive clothes, you’re made instantly. If they see a couple fighting over a late-night dinner, their eyes might skip over us for a second or two. Keep your head down, look at the menu.” “It won’t work.

” Vivian sobbed quietly, hiding her face behind the laminated menu. “They’re Vanguard operatives. They’re elite. They don’t make mistakes.” Through the glass, the leader of the squad approached the front door. Vivian knew his face from corporate security briefings, Dominic Russo, a former special forces operator who had been dishonorably discharged for excessive brutality before finding his true calling in the corporate underworld.

Russo was a psychopath in a bespoke suit. The diner’s bell jingled cheerfully as Russo stepped inside followed by two massive men who immediately flanked the entrance, hands resting casually inside their unbuttoned jackets. The late-night chatter of the diner died instantly. The few truck drivers and college students scattered around the room instinctively lowered their heads recognizing the primal scent of predators.

Russo took off his wet raincoat shaking it out. His eyes dead and reptilian began a slow methodical scan of the room. They’re here for me. Vivian whispered. Her voice breaking. Tears finally spilled over her cheeks. All her billions, all her power, her entire empire meant absolutely nothing right now. She was going to die on a sticky vinyl seat.

Please, just take your daughter to the bathroom. Get away from me. I don’t want her to see this. Harrison didn’t move. He slowly turned his head to look at Vivian. Up close, she noticed something she hadn’t seen before, a faint jagged scar running just beneath his jawline. Take a breath, Vivian. Harrison said. Vivian froze.

How do you know my name? I know a lot of things, Harrison replied smoothly. The mechanic facade was melting away entirely. The slouch was gone. His posture was ramrod straight, his shoulders squared. I know Jonathan Reed authorized a hostile board takeover at 8:00 p.m. I know he diverted 200 million to a shell company in the Cayman Islands and I know you’ve got the ledger that proves it.

Vivian’s mind spun violently. Who are you? I’m just a dad trying to get some pancakes, Harrison said. Footsteps approached. Slow, deliberate, heavy leather shoes clicking against the checkered linoleum floor. Russo had spotted her. Despite Harrison’s attempt to obscure her, Vivian’s profile was unmistakable to a trained hunter.

Russo walked down the aisle, a cruel, satisfied smirk spreading across his face. He stopped at their booth, looming over the table. “Miss Croft,” Russo purred, his voice dripping with mock politeness. “You’ve had a very busy night. Mr. Reed has been incredibly worried about you. He sent us to escort you back to the city.

Your car is waiting.” Vivian pressed herself against the wall, shaking her head. “I’m not going anywhere with you, Russo.” Russo sighed, pulling back the flap of his suit jacket just enough to reveal the matte black grip of a suppressed pistol. “Miss Croft, let’s not make a scene in front of the locals. You’re coming with us.

Either you walk out on your own two feet or we carry you out in a canvas bag. The board doesn’t care either way.” Vivian opened her mouth to scream, to beg the diner patrons for help, but she knew it was useless. No one here would risk a bullet for a stranger. She was entirely alone. “Hey,” a gravelly voice interrupted. Russo blinked, annoyed, and finally looked down at the man sitting next to his target.

Harrison was leaning back, an arm casually draped over the back of the booth behind Vivian. He hadn’t bothered to look up at Russo. He was busy using a spoon to fish a piece of ice out of his water glass. “We’re in the middle of a conversation,” Harrison said, tossing the ice cube onto a napkin. “And the lady said she’s not going anywhere.

” Russo let out a harsh, barking laugh. “Listen to me, buddy. I don’t know what kind of white night fantasy you’re living out in your little flannel shirt, but this doesn’t concern you. Take your brat, walk out the back door, and maybe you get to live to see tomorrow.” Harrison finally looked up. He didn’t glare, he didn’t scowl, he just looked at Russo with a gaze so completely empty of fear that it was unnatural.

It was the look of a man staring at a dead insect. “15 seconds.” Harrison said quietly. Russo frowned, his hand wrapping around the grip of his gun. “What did you say to me, grease monkey?” “I’m giving you 15 seconds to realize who you’re talking to.” Harrison said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a terrifying, authoritative resonance that cut through the diner like a blade.

“Because it’s second 16, I’m going to take that SIG Sauer off your hip, break your collarbone, and use your radio to call off your dogs outside.” Vivian stared at Harrison, horrified. He was going to get himself killed. He was going to get them all killed. But Russo didn’t draw his gun. Time in the diner seemed to grind to a halt.

The greasy ceiling fan spun overhead, its rhythmic clicking the only sound cutting through the suffocating silence. “1 2 3” Russo stared down at the man in the paint-stained shirt. The corporate cleaner’s eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation crossing his face, followed quickly by confusion. He took in the broad shoulders, the pale gray eyes, the jagged scar tracing the jawline.

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