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We follow him up the steps, constantly mindful of our surroundings. We’re dressed in black and grey, keeping it neutral and careful not to stand out as we calmly walk over to the reception desk.
Wyatt glances up in every corner of the hall, mindful of the cameras and their angles, while I nonchalantly gaze around to count the armed guards we might have to deal with if Chase’s plan doesn’t work out.
“Hi, there,” my twin says, flashing a debonair smile that gets the receptionist all puckered up and eager to assist. “We have an appointment with Mrs. Nash this afternoon. I think we’re actually late.”
“Let me check,” the girl says, going through the computer.
“You might not find us in there,” Chase replies. “It’s not an official meeting. It’s about her son, Colby.”
The receptionist gives him a slightly confused look. “Let me call her, then.”
“Tell her the Grady boys bring news,” he says.
We picked that line up from an older wiretap recording. Charlie shared a lot with us during our sit-downs, including archives of past investigations. Dallas PD had eyes and ears on several Nash offices and private residences at one point, and while they weren’t able to specifically prove that there were any illegal activities happening there, we did pick up on some patterns and coded language in their phone calls.
One of them was this whole ruse about the Grady boys.
Whenever somebody wanted direct access to Helen or Colby, they’d mention the Grady boys, and all the doors would instantly open up to them. No further questions asked. I hold my breath as I wait for the receptionist’s reaction as she gets Harriet on the phone and tells her these so-called magic words. It’s a gamble, and we do have other ways of getting up there, but the smoother our entrance, the easier and quicker our exit will be. The less damage we cause along the way, the better for us in the long run. Plus, it’ll save Charlie and his task force a heap of headaches in court.
“You can go up,” the receptionist says, somewhat surprised. I don’t think she expected Harriet to let us through so easily.
“Thank you,” Chase replies.
“We’re being watched,” Wyatt whispers as we head to the elevator.
“That’s no surprise.”
As the elevator doors slide open, my brothers and I go in. Calmly, we turn around to face the lobby area once more. I spot four security guards in elegant black suits and earpieces watching us like hawks. Even the receptionist gives us a curious side-eye. The elevator doors close, leaving us with approximately thirty seconds before we reach the top floor.
“At least there’s no elevator music,” Wyatt says. “I hate that shit.”
“Yet you keep a whole box of 80s records in your room,” Chase grumbles.
“Hey, that’s real music.”
“We should get you a keyboard for your next birthday.”
Oftentimes, we resort to dry banter in order to relieve the stress. At this point, the three of us are boiling with rage and anxiety. Halle and the kids are out there somewhere in danger, and we can’t get to her without jumping through these unpleasant hoops. This is the worst possible time for us to have to summon our patience, yet it must be done. I’d like nothing more than to crash and smash my way through the building, hell, through the whole fucking city, in order to get to her and the kids but I know I’m never gonna save her unless I play my cards right.
“They might pull weapons on us as soon as we reach the top floor,” Chase says after a few seconds of heavy silence.
“We’ll keep it cool until we have no other choice but to respond in kind,” I calmly reply. “The smoother this runs, the better for everyone.”
I’ve said this to myself so many times, I almost believe it.
“Almost there,” Wyatt warns us.
My body bucks, every muscle tightening with tension as we prepare for the worst. We’re carrying plenty of weapons and ammo beneath our black suit coats. I’ve got two semi-automatic pistols and enough bullets to double my Navy body count, though I don’t want it to get to that point. Add Chase and Wyatt’s heat into the mix, it’ll be a triple digit carnage.
The elevator doors open.
We’re greeted by two bouncers, bigger and gruffer than their ground-floor counterparts. They appear to be Eastern European, judging by their accents and features. It doesn’t surprise me that Harriet would hire foreign fellas for her protection. The Russians and the Bulgarians are notorious for their deadly efficiency.
“Follow us,” one of them says, and I immediately recognize the accent.
“Gladly,” I reply with a wry smile.
At the very end of the hall, two double doors of frosted glass await. Beyond them I can see the blurry silhouette of a woman behind a massive desk. My heart skips a beat, the anticipation becoming almost unbearable.
