“CHECK THE CLOCK, MR. HALE,” THE HOUSEKEEPER’S FOUR-YEAR-OLD WHISPERED—SECONDS LATER, THE EAST COAST’S MOST FEARED CRIME BOSS FOUND A BLINKING SECRET THAT MADE HIM QUESTION THE WOMAN HE WOULD MARRY IN ELEVEN DAYS

At 3:14 p.m., six miles south of the Hale estate, the overcast sky hung dark over Pier 42.

The rusted steel doors of the abandoned grain silo stood silent against the freezing wind blowing off the river. Inside, deep within a windowless concrete basement room, a single dim lightbulb hung from a frayed wire overhead.

Paige Whitmore sat curled in a tight ball on a rusted folding chair in the center of the room.

Her hair was matted, her face pale and sunken, her clothes dirty. She pressed her hands tightly over her ears, her eyes squeezed shut, her lips moving rapidly as she rocked back and forth in the dark.

“...eighty-six... seventy-nine... seventy-two... sixty-five...” she whimpered, her voice raspy from days of screaming. “...fifty-eight... fifty-one...”

Outside the heavy iron door of the basement, two guards in dark leather jackets sat at a wooden table playing cards, an automatic shotgun leaning against the wall between them.

SPLAT.

Without warning, two silenced rounds tore through the heavy wooden door frame.

The first guard collapsed instantly onto the card table; the second didn't even have time to reach for his shotgun before a tactical operator in black gear kicked the door off its hinges, slamming it hard against his skull and dropping him unconscious to the floor.

Marcus Vance burst into the concrete cell, his weapon raised, his tactical flashlight cutting through the dim dust of the room.

Paige gasped, pulling her knees tight against her chest, her body shaking in absolute terror as she shrank into the corner.

“...thirty-seven... thirty... twenty-three!” Paige screamed, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the gunshot. “Twenty-three! Twenty-three! Claire! Twenty-three!”

Marcus immediately lowered his rifle, stepping forward slowly and dropping to one knee so he wasn't looming over her. He pulled a silver charm bracelet from his pocket—a bracelet Claire had given Dominic to prove her identity.

“Paige Whitmore?” Marcus asked softly, holding out the bracelet where the lightbulb caught its glare. “Your sister Claire sent us. Dominic Hale sent us. You’re safe, kid.”

Paige opened her eyes slowly. When she saw her mother’s silver charm bracelet in Marcus’s hand, a loud, sob ripped from her chest.

“Claire?” she sobbed, collapsing forward into Marcus’s arms. “Is Claire okay? The man... the man with the scarred neck said he was going to kill her at the wedding!”

“Claire is safe,” Marcus said firmly, lifting the frail twenty-two-year-old girl effortlessly into his arms and wrapping a warm tactical coat around her shoulders. “And the man with the scarred neck is about to have a very bad afternoon.”