Intercepted (New Hope #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Mallory

The town car glides to the curb in front of a high-rise in Dallas's metropolitan area. It's a sleek, modern building with glass siding and iron support beams. Pedestrians crowd the sidewalk, chatting animatedly into their cell phones. A slight breeze sends their thin coats flapping, but the inhabitants of Dallas pay it no mind as they go about their evening.

"This is it," the driver announces, peering at me from the front seat. I didn't hire him; he was just waiting at the airport, my last name written on the piece of paper he held. "Victory Avenue, Downtown Dallas. Do you need any assistance getting indoors?"

It's less than ten feet from the town car to the building's revolving door. I think I can manage, especially since I didn't come with a single thing to my name, apart from my cell phone with an attached wallet and a set of keys. I had to buy a charger for a whopping $40 at Philadelphia International as a result of my poor planning.

A single text awaited me when I landed at DFW.

Reeves: Kids are here. They're safe. Doug will pick you up in Terminal A.

"I'll be okay, Doug." I stuff my phone in the back pocket of my skinny jeans, lifting my ass off the seat to make room. "But thanks for the ride."

The overcrowded street is nothing like the indifferent, no-nonsense sidewalks in Philly. There, I know my place. I'm geared to bump shoulders with my fellow Pennsylvanians, who have been hardened to withstand torrential rainfall, rising crime rates, and years of inequality.

Here, I'm ill-prepared. I play a game of leapfrog, dodging passersby, not knowing how a stranger will react if I accidentally brush their coat. The bitter cold snap that has descended on the subtropical city is strange, given it was warm when the plane landed. I was only stuck in traffic for an hour, but I swear it's dropped twenty degrees in the interim.

This is an odd place.

The revolving door holds no comfort, depositing me into a gold-trimmed lobby with glass tables and dozens of receptionists standing behind a long, foreboding marble desk. Although, it's not really a desk—more like a barrier.

"I'm here to see Mason Reeves," I state, nervously rapping my knuckles against the barrier. "I understand he has an apartment here."

The young receptionist smiles up at me, tapping a few things into her computer. "Certainly. May I have your identification?"

I pass her my license, glancing around at the crystal chandeliers, velvet armchairs, and brass fixtures.

"Oh!" the woman exclaims, eyes widening at the name on my identification card. "Mallory Robinson. I've been instructed to send you straight up. You'll need this." She passes me a heavy metal keycard with the building's address etched into its side. "Just show security your ID and this card, and they'll let you through to the penthouse elevator."

Following her directions, I hand the items to a burly man in a suit, who unlocks a wrought-iron gate, allowing me passage to the private lifts like he's granting me access to heaven. I give him a thin-lipped smile, then enter the elevator, scanning the keycard over the panel.

"This is fucking ridiculous," I grumble, clasping the railing as the metal box propels me upward fifty floors. "Drivers, penthouses, troll-men guarding the lobby... Absolutely unnecessary."

The doors slide open, revealing a blindingly bright foyer. A vase of calla lilies serves as the centerpiece on a glass entry table, guiding me into the apartment. My sneakers scuff the floor, leaving infinitesimal traces of Pennsylvania's slushy streets. The squeaking must alert Mason, who rounds the corner looking far too put together for my liking.