Chapter Seventy-Seven
The air in the hallway was thick with the bitter, chemical stench of burning paper and melting ink. Thick clouds of dark gray smoke rolled up from the lower floor, clinging to the rafters like a heavy ceiling of fog. Downstairs, the clubhouse sounded like a war room in the middle of a retreat—shouted orders, the sharp metallic clack of weapons being loaded, and the heavy thud of boots sprinting across hardwood.
Jake didn't let go of my hand. His grip was tight, almost painful, but it was the only anchor keeping my heart from leaping straight out of my throat.
"Lisa, take the back stairs and get to the garage," Jake commanded, his Vice President authority cutting through the rising noise. His gray eyes were sharp, calculated, assessing every exit like a tactical off
