Page 60 of Shadows Relived
The winding dirt path finally gave way to pavement, and the SUV picked up speed as they merged onto a narrow county road. Ahead, the route would link with the interstate, and from there, it was a straight shot into Georgia. After stopping for clothes and a new phone, that is.
They spoke little at first, the air inside the vehicle thick with the unspoken weight of what they were doing. Leaving the safe zone. Heading straight toward the man who had been both protector and deceiver. Her father.
Meaghan stared out the window at the trees whipping past, but her mind was on the road ahead. On Callen. She could still smell him on her skin, could feel the ghost of his arms around her from the night before. Part of her still couldn’t believe he’d gone without her. Another part knew exactly why he had.
She didn’t ask how far ahead he had gotten or if they could catch up with him. She just watched the trees fall away, replaced by open stretches of farmland and theoccasional rusted-out barn leaning into the wind. Her heart ached, but her spine stayed straight.
“He thinks he’s saving me,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “That’s why he left me behind.” She was through with being the one left behind, however.
And as the miles stretched on, so did her resolve. This time, she would face the truth head-on, even if it shattered everything.
Gage turned slightly in his seat, lifting his phone in offering. “You want to call him? Let him know we’re on the way.”
Meaghan blinked, lips curving slightly at the corners. “Let him be surprised.”
CHAPTER 22
THE ESTATE LOOMEDLIKE a damn fortress.
Callen crouched in the shadows across from the Harrington property, nestled in a strip of overgrown oak and palmetto brush just off the gated drive. He’d ditched the SUV several blocks back, moving in on foot, blending with the dark the way Wraith always had: silent, unseen, patient.
He didn’t need to get inside. He just needed a look to see how tight security was around the estate. He cursed Tex for always being right about these things as he watched two guards patrol the drive, predictable in their pacing. A third sat in the glass booth at the gate, face bathed in the pale glow from his phone screen. The whole setup screamed money and paranoia. But it was the house itself that told Callen what he needed to know—lights on in the office, a flicker of blue from a TV in the den, and the two figures seated at a late dinner behind high paned windows.
There was no doubt the senator was home, and there was no way Callen could get to him.
But that wouldn’t be for long. One thing he learned in the Rangers was always to have a Plan B, and Tex had come up with a good one.
Monday nights meant one thing for Roger Harrington—his weekly cigar and bourbon hour at The King’s Leaf, an old-school private lounge tucked into Savannah’s historic district. Callen had verified it himself by having Blaze tap into past video feeds, watching the man leave the estate at exactly 8:47 p.m. under a slim security escort. One driver. One personal aide. The senator didn’t want to put on a big show in front of his public, and Callen knew he would refuse to stay home, even with the New Horizons threat. Of course, the threats weren’t against him exactly. At least not the deadly ones. Those were against his daughter, the one he setup.
Callen shifted, checking the time on his burner. 7:56 p.m. He had less than an hour to get in place. He slipped out from the brush and made for the vehicle stashed a few streets back.
Once behind the wheel, he adjusted a ball cap over his eyes, tugged up the collar of his gray hoodie, and ran through the plan one more time.
No direct confrontation at the bar. He didn’t need a public scene. That wouldn’t be good for anyone, especially Meaghan.
He would wait until the senator stepped outside, use a diversion to separate him from his aide and guard, and then move fast, just two blocks over to where he would leave the SUV. Easy. He hoped.
He wouldn’t miss. Wraith didn’t miss once he set his sights on his target, and that’s exactly who he had to be to protect the woman he loved.
The King’s Leaf looked unassuming at first glance tucked into the brick-laced corner of the historic district, its black awning sagged slightly from the humid Georgia air. A soft golden glow flickered from the inside, warm and deceptive, as if the place catered more to philosophers than power players. But inside those walls, powerful men made deals over Cuban cigars and hundred-dollar pours. It was exactly the kind of quiet haunt where Roger Harrington liked to flex his influence off-camera. According to Tex, it was where the senator held many of his more private meetings.
Callen hid behind a nondescript sedan parked across the narrow cobbled street, ball cap pulled low, hoodie zipped to his collarbone, a disposable coffee cup pressed against his thigh more for show than warmth.
He’d been watching for forty minutes when the senator’s SUV had pulled in exactly on schedule—8:47 p.m.—just like Tex had said it would. Security stayed close, but they didn’t follow him in. The narrowness of the bar’s interior made it hard to secure with its low ceilings, tight booths, and a single corridor leading to the private humidor lounge in back. There weren’t enough clear sightlines for a full security detail to stay inside without drawing attention or block exits, and the bouncers at the door didn’t care for armed guards taking up barstools. Probably the reason most of Roger’s people had remained at home, out of sight and out of Callen’s way, leaving the senator looking like he had no fear. That wasHarrington’s habit. Maintain appearances. No visible protection just so he could maintain the illusion of approachability.
It was also a flaw, and Tex had zeroed in on it within minutes, and tonight it would be Senator Roger Harrington’s fatal mistake.
Callen’s phone vibrated, drawing his attention. It was Tex who had hacked into the surrounding cameras to give Callen a second set of eyes.
East alley’s still clear. Back entrance has a coded lock—last four of the owner’s birthday. Talk about predictable. Snag him and get the hell out of here. And don’t get cocky, Wraith.
Callen smirked despite himself.
That afternoon, Tex had sent Callen the architectural blueprints for The King’s Leaf, a direct lift from the city permit records, hacked and delivered just after lunch. The bar was built in the 1940s with poor renovations over the decades, which meant gaps in the infrastructure. He also sent it with a voice note attached: “This place is a tactical joke. Single front door. Side fire exit. Humidor’s in the back with a single vent running above it you could use to eavesdrop if needed. I’d suggest extraction point at the east alley, a blind angle from the main road. Narrow enough for a grab, wide enough to squeeze an SUV. You’ve got a three-minute window between when Harrington steps out and when his driver rounds the block for pickup. That’s your opening.”
Callen had studied the layout over and over, memorizing the stacked stone walls, the poorly placed security cameras, and the outdated lock mechanisms. It was the intel that made or broke a mission, and it was exactly what he needed to pull this off without a bloodbath.
He had a plan. The senator just didn’t know it yet, and wouldn’t until it was too late.
