Chapter seven
816 Words
The Hunt
The city disappears behind them like a mistake neither of them intends to repeat.
Elvis drives without music, without destination beyond away. The kind of quiet that follows trauma fills the car, thick, fragile, waiting to shatter if either of them breathes too hard.
Amaris watches the road cut forward through the dark.
Every light feels like exposure.
Every shadow, a threat.
She presses her arm against the bruise on her ribs, grounding herself in the pain. Pain means she’s here. Alive. Free, for now.
“Elvis,” she says softly. “Slow down.”
He doesn’t.
“I won’t,” he answers, voice flat. “Not again.”
She exhales and lets it go. This version of him isn’t reckless. It’s controlled. Focused. Terrifyingly calm.
By sunrise, they are no longer in Stewart territory.
The safe house is unmarked, no signs, no staff, no records tied to his name. A place he built years ago for emergencies he hoped would never come. The kind of place you disappear into when the world becomes hostile.
He locks the door behind them manually.
No smart systems.
No cameras online.
No digital trail.
Only then does he let himself look at her.
Really look.
The bruising has bloomed overnight. Purple and blue mapping pain across her skin. Cuts he hadn’t noticed. The tremor she’s been hiding finally surfaces.
“Sit,” he says quietly.
She does.
He cleans her wounds with hands that don’t shake anymore, but his jaw is locked so tight she thinks his teeth might crack. Every time she winces, something vicious flickers behind his eyes.
“You don’t have to do this,” she murmurs.
“I do,” he replies instantly. “This is on me.”
“No,” she says, lifting her chin. “This is on them.”
That earns her a long look. Respect. Something like awe.
When he finishes, he wraps her ribs carefully. Too carefully. As if afraid she might break under his touch.
“My grandmother,” she says.
The words drop like a blade.
Elvis straightens slowly. “I have teams working already.”
“Teams you trust?”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“Then we start today.”
He nods once. “We started yesterday.”
The first name he erases is Tony Stewart.
Not publicly.
Quietly.
Accounts freeze without explanation. Travel permissions stall. His loyal security detail finds itself reassigned overseas on “urgent corporate matters.”
Phones go unanswered.
Doors close.
By noon, Tony realizes something is wrong.
By evening, he understands.
Elvis doesn’t need to confront him yet.
Power doesn’t scream. It rearranges reality until the target understands how small they are.
A secure file opens on Elvis’s tablet, one that hasn’t been accessed in years.
PROJECT: FOGBOUND
Amaris watches over his shoulder. “What is that?”
His expression doesn’t change. “A contingency.”
“For what?”
“For war.”
She studies the screen. Hidden routes. Black sites. Names redacted, then restored.
“You planned this,” she says carefully.
“I was raised in it.”
That answer scares her more than she admits.
They find the first lead just after midnight.
A caregiver broke protocol. Used an old access card. Logged into a private transport registry Tony thought no one remembered.
A location surfaces.
Rural. Off-grid. Private medical facility registered under a shell company.
Elvis’s thumb stills on the screen.
“This isn’t a hospital,” he says.
Amaris leans closer. “Then what is it?”
“A holding site.”
Her chest tightens. “For leverage.”
“Yes.”
Silence stretches between them.
“Take me with you,” she says.
He looks up sharply. “No.”
“She’s my grandmother.”
“And she’s why you’re staying here.”
Her eyes flash. “You don’t get to cage me now.”
His voice lowers. “I don’t get to bury you either.”
They hold each other’s stare,fire meeting steel.
Finally, he exhales.
“I move first,” he says. “I clear it. If it’s safe”
“When,” she corrects.
He nods once. “When. Then you come.”
She swallows, then reaches for his hand. “Come back to me.”
He laces his fingers through hers, pressing their hands together like a vow. “I don’t plan on dying.”
She almost smiles.
As night folds back over the land, Elvis prepares.
Black jacket. No insignia. No witnesses.
The man who leaves the safe house isn’t the billionaire heir or the newly crowned CEO.
He is something older.
Colder.
Built for this.
And miles away, in a place scrubbed from maps and memory, an old woman opens her eyes in the dark.
She doesn’t know where she is.
But she knows one thing with absolute certainty.
They took the wrong family.
- Writer
