Chapter 4 - The Anatomy of a Threat
By three o'clock that afternoon
the clouds had turned the color of bruised iron
unloading a sheets-thick Georgia downpour that turned the gravel drive into brown rivers.
Megan stood in the center of the east cottage living room.
It was larger than the entire apartment building she had left on Moreland Avenue.
The floors were warm
honey-toned pine
covered by thick wool rugs.
There was a modern kitchen with quartz counters
a master bedroom with a king bed
and a nursery alcove that Nancy had already stocked with a brand-new wooden crib
three sets of organic cotton sheets
and enough baby food to survive a siege.
Her two battered duffel bags sat on the antique trunk near the entryway
looking absurd
pathetic
and profoundly out of place.
She hadn't unpacked.
She was sitting on the edge of the sofa
Leo asleep in the crib down the hall
her phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline that was running out of battery.
The screen lit up.
A blocked number.
She stared at it
her knuckles whitening until the skin split over her knuckles.
The phone vibrated against her palm: three long pulses
then silence.
A text message followed:
Saw you move your bags into Buckhead.
You think a cripple in a mansion is going to hide you from what you owe?
See you soon
Meggie.
Her breath hitched.
She dropped the phone on the coffee table as if it had bitten her.
A shadow crossed the porch outside.
Megan jumped to her feet
her hand darting toward the heavy brass lamp on the side table.
The front door swung inward without a knock.
Marcus stood on the threshold
rain dripping from the brim of his black tactical cap
his tailored coat unbuttoned just enough to reveal the leather harness across his chest.
He didn’t enter
he merely leaned against the door jamb
his eyes sweeping the room with professional contempt.
“Cozy,” he said.
“Get out,” Megan replied
her voice steady
though the lamp trembled in her grip.
“Mr. Mason gave strict orders regarding this cottage.”
“Mr. Mason is an invalid with a soft spot for a sob story,” Marcus sneered
stepping one pace into the foyer
his wet boots leaving muddy treads on the clean wood.
“I’ve worked for the Mason family for fourteen years
little girl.
I was there when his father took three in the chest outside the Georgian Club.
I was there when the car rolled on Interstate 20 and severed Dominic’s spine.
I’ve buried bodies for this family.
I’ve paid off detectives.
I’ve made sure the people who wanted to put Dominic in a cage ended up in the dirt.”
He stepped closer
towering over her
the sour smell of wet wool and stale tobacco rolling off his frame.
“You think because you wiped his forehead with a rag you’re untouchable?
You’re a flea
Megan.
A flea with a bad credit score
a deadbeat baby daddy named Tyler Vance who’s currently out on bail for armed robbery
and twenty thousand dollars in debt to loan sharks in Clayton County.”
Megan’s breath froze in her throat.
“You stayed away from my records,” she whispered.
“I am security,” Marcus said
his smile razor-thin and utterly devoid of warmth.
“Everything that enters this gate belongs to my jurisdiction.
Tyler Vance gets out of the Fulton County annex on Thursday morning.
Guess who he’s going to come looking for?
Guess whose name is on the lease of that abandoned apartment on Moreland?”
He leaned down until his eyes were level with hers.
“You brought a hurricane into this house
Megan.
Dominic has enough enemies without a low-life stickup kid sniffing around the perimeter.
So here’s what’s going to happen.
You’re going to take your brat
you’re going to pack those two garbage bags
and you’re going to walk down to the gate by five o’clock.
I have an envelope in my car with ten thousand dollars cash.
You take it
you get on a bus to Charlotte
and you disappear.”
“And if I don’t?” Megan hissed
her chin jutting forward
her eyes blazing with the same defiance she had shown me.
Marcus’s face darkened.
“Then Tyler finds out where you live before he even clears the courthouse steps.
And when he gets here
my men won't shoot him.
We’ll just let him take what’s his.”
“He doesn’t own me!” she screamed
forgetting the sleeping child for a single
furious second.
“He never owned me!”
“He owns your debt
sweetheart,” Marcus said softly.
“And around here
debt is the only thing that’s real.”
A low
mechanical whine purred through the heavy rain outside.
Marcus’s eyes flicked toward the window.
The motorized ramp of the customized black Mercedes Sprinter was lowering onto the cottage driveway.
A silhouette sat in the open doorway of the vehicle
rain sheeting off the umbrella held aloft by a silent driver.
Dominic Mason was not in his bed.
He had not waited for an escort.
The wheels of his chair rolled down the ramp with a steady
unforgiving hiss.
Marcus stepped back
his posture shifting instantly from predator to soldier
his spine snapping straight
his face smoothing into disciplined deference.
“Marcus,” my voice carried through the open cottage door
clear
cold
May you like
and carrying the weight of an execution order.
“Step out of that house before I have Frank take your fingers off the doorframe.”
