Chapter 3 - DEAD WOMEN DON’T BLEEDGrant Mercer hit the floor beside me as another bullet punched through the living-room wall.
“Kitchen!” he shouted.
I crawled behind the sofa.
The woman calling herself Eleanor Voss didn’t scream.
She moved.
Fast.
Much faster than a woman her age should have.
She threw herself behind the stone entry column, reached beneath her gray coat, and pulled out a handgun.
That told me two things immediately.
She had expected trouble.
And whoever she was, she had lied before she ever knocked on the door.
Grant fired through the broken window.
Someone outside returned three shots.
I pressed both hands over my head as glass rained onto the floor.
“Grace!”
I looked up.
Grant pointed toward the kitchen hallway.
“Move!”
I started crawling.
Then the fake Eleanor grabbed my wrist.
“Not that way.”
I jerked away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“They’re covering the back exit.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s how Raymond trains them.”
The name stopped me.
Grant heard it too.
His expression sharpened.
“Who the hell are you?”
She glanced toward the driveway.
“No time.”
“There’s time.”
A bullet struck the column inches above her shoulder.
She didn’t flinch.
“My name is Mara Voss.”
Grant stared.
“Eleanor’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“You’re supposed to be dead too.”
“Apparently your records need work.”
Another burst of gunfire hit the house.
Mara pushed a bookcase aside, revealing a narrow maintenance door hidden behind it.
Grant looked at her.
“How do you know that’s there?”
“I helped design the renovation twelve years ago.”
Of course she did.
Nothing about this night could be simple.
She opened the door.
A dark stairwell led down.
Grant kept his gun raised.
“You first.”
Mara gave him a humorless smile.
“You really think I came here to kill Grace?”
“I think everyone who finds her tonight wants something.”
“That includes you.”
Grant’s jaw hardened.
“Move.”
We descended.
The stairwell ended inside a utility tunnel connecting the safe house to an old carriage garage fifty yards away.
I didn’t know whether to be impressed or terrified that Vincent Hale owned houses with escape tunnels.
Probably both.
The gunfire grew distant above us.
Mara led us toward the garage.
I grabbed her coat.
“Stop.”
She turned.
“You told me my father is alive.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“That answer is not good enough.”
“It’s the only honest one I have.”
“Then how do you know he’s alive?”
She looked at me for several seconds.
“Because he contacted me eighteen months ago.”
My breath caught.
Grant stepped closer.
“Thomas contacted you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Encrypted audio file.”
“Voice verification?”
“I knew his voice.”
“That’s not verification.”
“He mentioned something only Thomas, my mother, and I could know.”
“What?”
Mara’s eyes shifted toward me.
“The red bicycle.”
I felt my knees weaken.
When I was nine, my father bought me a used red bicycle.
The seat was too high.
I crashed into our mailbox on the first day.
Dad repaired the mailbox before Mom came home.
For years, it was our joke.
Whenever one of us made a mistake, Dad would say, At least the mailbox survived.
No police report had that.
No newspaper.
No one outside our family.
“What did he say?”
Mara softened.
“He said, ‘Tell Grace the mailbox survived.’”
I covered my mouth.
For one second, the tunnel disappeared.
I was nine years old again.
My father was holding the handlebars while I shouted at him not to let go.
He did anyway.
I rode twelve feet before hitting the mailbox.
Dad laughed so hard he cried.
Now I was crying.
I hated myself for it.
Because tears made everything feel real.
If Thomas was alive eighteen months ago, then someone had kept that truth from me.
“Why didn’t you find me?”
“I tried.”
“Not very hard.”
“My mother had just been murdered.”
Grant’s head snapped toward her.
“Murdered?”
Mara nodded.
“The official story says Eleanor died in a boating accident six months ago. That part is true. What Vincent doesn’t know is that the boat had been tampered with.”
“You have proof?”
“I have the mechanic who found the cut fuel line.”
“Where is he?”
“Missing.”
Grant exhaled.
“Convenient.”
Mara ignored him.
“My mother spent eleven years keeping your family hidden from Raymond. When she died, I realized he knew exactly who she’d been protecting.”
“Me.”
“Yes.”
“Then why come here tonight?”
“Because when Vincent’s mansion exploded, Raymond made his first open move in years.”
“Against Vincent?”
“Against everyone.”
Grant opened the carriage-garage door slowly.
No lights.
No visible movement.
A black SUV waited inside.
Mara tossed him the keys.
He didn’t catch them.
They hit the floor.
“You expect me to drive your car?”
“I expect you to survive.”
Grant picked up the keys.
We got inside.
He drove through the rear gate and onto a narrow county road.
For five minutes, nobody spoke.
Then my phone buzzed.
A blocked number.
Grant looked at me.
“Don’t answer.”
I answered.
Silence.
Then a man said, “Grace.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“Who is this?”
A low chuckle.
“You’ve been asking about me all night.”
Raymond.
I couldn’t prove it.
But I knew.
“Raymond Blackwell?”
Grant nearly swerved.
Mara twisted around in the passenger seat.
The voice continued.
“You sound like Ellen.”
My blood turned cold.
“Did you know my mother?”
“I knew your whole family.”
“Where is my father?”
A pause.
Then:
“Closer than Vincent wants you to believe.”
I gripped the phone.
“Is he alive?”
“You should ask Vincent why he lies so well.”
“Answer me.”
“Thomas was always difficult.”
My throat tightened.
“Was?”
Raymond laughed softly.
“Words make people careless.”
“Where is he?”
“Ask Grant about Warehouse 17.”
I looked at Grant.
His face changed.
Raymond continued.
“Interesting expression, isn’t it?”
He could see us.
I spun toward the windows.
Dark trees raced past.
“How are you watching us?”
“Grace, you still think this is about a missing truck.”
“What is it about?”
“Your father stole something that belonged to me.”
“What?”
“The future.”
The line went dead.
Grant immediately took the next turn.
“Throw your phone out.”
“What?”
“Now.”
I lowered the window and tossed it.
Mara did the same.
Grant smashed his against the dashboard before throwing it out too.
“What is Warehouse 17?” I demanded.
“Not here.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because Raymond just tracked us through three supposedly secure phones.”
“Then answer before he starts shooting.”
Grant tightened his grip on the wheel.
“Warehouse 17 was where Vincent found your father’s truck.”
I stared at him.
“You said no truck was found.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“My family was told that.”
“Because the truck was burned beyond recognition.”
“When?”
“Three days after Thomas disappeared.”
“Where?”
“Near the Maryland border.”
“Was anyone inside?”
“No.”
“What was in the cargo?”
Grant looked toward Mara.
She answered instead.
“Military guidance components.”
I stared at her.
“My father drove commercial freight.”
“He thought he did.”
My stomach dropped.
“Explain.”
“Vincent’s company handled legitimate contracts. Raymond used some of those routes to move stolen defense technology.”
“Did Vincent know?”
Mara hesitated.
“Eventually.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No. At first, Vincent didn’t know.”
Grant spoke.
“Thomas discovered what Raymond was doing.”
“And threatened to expose him.”
“Yes.”
“What did my father steal?”
Grant looked at me in the mirror.
“A ledger.”
“Money?”
“Names.”
Mara turned toward me.
“Politicians. Contractors. customs officers. military suppliers. Everyone Raymond had paid.”
I felt sick.
“Where is it?”
“That’s what Raymond has been trying to learn for eleven years.”
“Why does he think I know?”
“Because Thomas disappeared before Raymond could get the ledger back.”
I stared out the window.
All my father had done was drive a truck.
That was what I believed.
Now he sounded like a whistleblower inside an international criminal operation.
“What does Vincent want?”
“To destroy Raymond.”
“Why?”
Grant’s face hardened.
“Because Raymond killed Vincent’s brother.”
I remembered the argument before the explosion.
You killed my brother.
Your brother stole from me.
I had assumed Vincent was speaking to Raymond.
Maybe I had heard it backward.
“Whose brother?”
“Raymond’s brother, Adrian.”
Mara corrected him.
“Half-brother.”
“What did Adrian steal?”
“Money.”
Grant laughed once.
“More than money.”
Mara looked toward him.
Grant continued.
“Adrian stole Raymond’s escape fund and tried to sell the ledger to Vincent.”
My head began to ache.
“Did Vincent kill Adrian?”
“Yes.”
At least Grant didn’t lie.
“When?”
“Twelve years ago.”
“One year before my father disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“So Raymond used my father’s freight run to retaliate.”
“That’s what Vincent believed.”
“And now?”
Grant said nothing.
“What changed?”
Mara answered.
“Thomas sent a message.”
Grant glanced at her.
“You never told Vincent?”
“My mother didn’t trust Vincent.”
“Neither do I.”
Mara faced me.
“Thomas said Raymond wasn’t the person we should fear most.”
I stared at her.
“Then who?”
Before she could answer, headlights appeared behind us.
Fast.
Grant checked the mirror.
“Hold on.”
The vehicle accelerated.
A dark pickup.
It rammed the back of the SUV.
I slammed against my seat belt.
Grant swore and increased speed.
Another pickup appeared ahead.
Blocking the road.
“Brace!”
Grant jerked the wheel.
The SUV tore through a wooden fence and bounced into an empty field.
The second truck followed.
Mara pulled her gun.
I grabbed the dashboard.
“We’re not going to outrun them.”
Grant smiled without humor.
“Wasn’t planning to.”
Ahead, an abandoned grain-processing facility rose against the sky.
Grant aimed the SUV toward it.
“Warehouse 17,” he said.
I looked at him.
“You brought us here?”
“No.”
My skin went cold.
“What?”
He pointed.
On the warehouse roof, one light had just turned on.
Then another.
Then another.
A message spelled itself across the old loading bay in white bulbs.
WELCOME HOME, GRACE.
Grant stopped the SUV.
For several seconds, no one moved.
Then a loudspeaker crackled somewhere above us.
A man’s voice filled the night.
“Eleven years is a long time to wait for your daughter.”
My heart stopped.
The warehouse door began to rise.
Inside, beneath a single hanging light, stood a thin older man.
Gray beard.
Bent left shoulder.
Right foot turned outward.
My father looked straight at me.
May you like
“Grace.”
And then every light went black.
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