Guarding Raven

The Lion's Den

The heavy metallic garage door was like a sound proofed shield as it drowned out the busy noise of the city. Zavior’s "home" was a converted warehouse in the industrial district. It was hidden behind a nondescript brick facade and a security system that looked like it belonged to a private military company. As the garage door hissed shut behind his SUV, Raven finally let out a breath she'd been holding since they fled the studio. "Upstairs," he said, nodding toward a steel staircase. "The perimeter is keyed to my biometrics. You’re safe here, Landry."

The loft was surprisingly clean, but sparse. It was a space designed for a man who lived out of a go-bag. Exposed brick, floor-to-ceiling windows covered by heavy blackout curtains, and a kitchen that looked like it had never seen a home-cooked meal. Raven wandered over to a bookshelf while Zavior checked the perimeter monitors. She expected to see manuals on combat or survival. Instead, her fingers brushed against a worn, leather-bound copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. Next to it was a small, hand-carved wooden bird—an artist's touch in a warrior's den. "You carve?" she asked, turning to look at him. Zavior stopped, his hand hovering over a keypad. He looked at the bird, then back at her, a flicker of something like embarrassment crossing his face. "It’s just a way to keep my hands steady. Idle hands get people killed in my line of work." "It's beautiful," she whispered. It was the first "authentic" thing she’d found that didn't involve a weapon. It made him human. It made him dangerous in a whole new way. "Sit down, Raven," he said, his voice softer than before.

He shed his tactical vest, and she saw the dark stain on his shoulder had grown. For the next twenty minutes, the only sound was the rustle of gauze and the clink of medical tools. As she worked on his shoulder, she felt the heat radiating off him. He was a mountain of muscle and scars, but he didn't flinch as I cleaned the gash. "Why did you tell me to light the fire?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "You could have taken her down without burning my studio. All my father’s work... it’s gone." Zavior looked up at her, his eyes dark. "Because a fight in a dark room with a loaded gun is a gamble, Raven. A fire is a distraction. I wasn't going to gamble with your life. If the studio had to burn to get you out of there, then I’d light the match myself. Your father’s work is just paper and canvas. You're the legacy."

She felt a lump form in my throat. He wasn't just guarding her; he was valuing her. More than Arthur Vane ever had. More than Eleanor ever had. "You're a quarter-million-dollar headache," she joked, trying to hide the fact that her hands were shaking. "I lied," he whispered, leaning in until our foreheads almost touched. "You're a hell of a lot more expensive than that." While Zavior was busy at the monitors, Raven sat at the drafting table and opened the leather book. She ignored the stains on the cover, focusing on the columns of numbers.

Her father had always been meticulous, but this wasn't just accounting. "Zavior, look at this," she called out. He stepped over, leaning one hand on the table behind her. His proximity was distracting, but the page was more important. "These aren't just prices for paintings," she pointed to a series of dates. "He has names of ships listed here. Port of Los Angeles. Port of Savannah. Why would an art gallery be tracking shipping containers?" Zavior narrowed his eyes, his finger tracing a line of code next to a shipment of 'Sculptures.' "Because they weren't shipping art, Raven. They were shipping weight. If you fill a crate with lead-lined sculptures, you can hide almost anything inside. Currency, hardware... or worse."

"He knew," she whispered, the weight of it hitting her. "He wasn't just a victim. He was the architect of their transport system. That’s why Eleanor is so desperate. It’s not just about the five million. It’s about the names of the clients in this book. If this goes public, the entire gallery network across the coast collapses." "It’s a death warrant," Zavior said grimly. "For anyone holding that book. We might have to go underground." Zavior grabbed a small black bag and started shoving essentials into it—water, a burner phone, and a first-aid kit.

He stopped and looked at her, his expression more serious than she’d ever seen it. "Landry, listen to me. If we get separated in the tunnels, you don't go back to the studio. You don't call your friends. You go to the bus station on 42nd street. There’s a locker, number 419. The key is taped to the back of the ledger's cover." "Separated? You said you’d protect me." "I will. But I’m one man, and Eleanor has an army. If I have to draw them away from you, you need to know how to disappear. You have to stop being Raven Landry, the artist. You have to be a ghost." He reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His hand lingered there for a second too long, his thumb brushing my temple. "Can you do that for me? Can you be a ghost?"

The tension between us snapped like a live wire. For a second, she thought he might actually kiss her. She wanted him to. She wanted to forget the fire and the blood and the missing millions. "I've spent my whole life hiding in my father's shadow," she said, meeting his gaze. "I think I've had plenty of practice." A flash of something—respect, maybe even affection—flickered in his eyes. "Good. Because being a ghost is the only way you stay alive." A sharp, electronic beep-beep-beep from the security monitor. Red lights begin to pulse faintly near the door.

Zavior cursed under his breath and was on his feet in a heartbeat, his hand on his weapon. His jaw tightened as he shoved her behind the kitchen's marble island—the second time today he'd treated her like a precious cargo he needed to shield. "What is it?" she asked, her blood turning to ice. "Blue and whites," he growled, eyes glued to the high-def camera feed. "Four cruisers. They aren't parking; they're breaching." "The police? Why would the police be here?" "They have a warrant, Raven. I’m reading the dispatch feed now. Arson and grand larceny. Eleanor must have friends in the precinct. She's reported the ledger stolen from the 'official' gallery archives. She's using the law to do her dirty work."

She looked at the ledger sitting on the counter. It was covered in my father's blood. "They think I'm a thief? After what she did?" "It doesn't matter what they think. It matters what they can prove," Zavior said, throwing a heavy black jacket at her. "And right now, they have a smoking building and a missing ledger. If you go into custody, you’ll never make it to a jail cell. Eleanor will make sure you 'disappear' during transport." The sound of a megaphone echoed from the street below. "Zavior Kane! This is the NYPD! We have a warrant for the arrest of Raven Landry! Come out with your hands up!" "We’re going underground," Zavior said, grabbing the ledger and shoving it into his pack. He grabbed her hand, his grip like a vise. "There’s a service tunnel that leads to the old garment district sub-lines. It’s tight, it’s dark, and it’s going to be cold. You ready?" She looked at the door, then back at him. "As long as you're the one leading the way."