Chapter 2 - Neutral Ground
The city blurred past the passenger window in streaks of amber sodium and slate-gray rain. Cormac’s truck smelled of worn leather, black coffee, and rain-dampened wool—none of Gideon’s lavender cologne or the stale, suffocating scent of the estate's imported orchids. I kept my hand pressed against my throat, my fingers tracing the faint, bruised outline where Gideon’s thumb had dug in.
"You're shaking," Cormac said, his voice low over the hum of the heater. He didn't take his eyes off the wet asphalt of the highway, his large hands resting easily on the steering wheel. The dark ink of his neck tattoos vanished beneath the collar of his white shirt every time he checked the rearview mirror.
"I'm not used to anyone stopping him," I whispered, my voice sounding thin and brittle even to my own ears. "Usually, people just look away. They pretend the shouting is just a domestic disagreement."
"Gideon Marsh plays the benevolent benefactor so well people forget he's a tyrant behind closed doors," Cormac replied evenly. He signaled a lane change, merging the heavy truck onto an unlit exit ramp that wound down toward the industrial fringe of the city. "That's why he surrounds himself with glass and gold. Hard to see the rot when everything's shiny."
We turned down a narrow alley flanked by brick warehouses before Cormac cut the engine in front of a heavy steel-reinforced door. There was no buzzer, no valet, no security detail in sight. This was his space—fortified, anonymous, and far away from the polished marble floors of the dining room we had just fled.
Inside, the loft was vast and drafty, dominated by exposed brick walls, a heavy oak workbench covered in tools, and a single tall window looking out over the rain-slicked harbor. It wasn't luxurious, but every surface felt solid. Real.
Cormac walked over to a small kitchenette, filled a glass with tap water, and set it on the scarred wooden counter without a word. He didn't hover, and he didn't demand an explanation. He gave me space to unspool.
"Drink," he said, turning his back to pull a thick gray blanket from the top of a battered leather armchair. He draped it over my shoulders, his knuckles brushing my collarbone with deliberate gentleness. "You're safe here for tonight. Marsh's reach is long, but it isn't infinite outside the city center."
I took the glass, my fingers cold against the glass. "He'll call the police. He'll claim I took something, or that I'm unstable. He's done it before to others."
"Let him try," Cormac said, leaning his hips against the edge of the workbench and crossing his arms. The movement pulled his white shirt taut across his chest, emphasizing the thick muscles of his forearms. "The foundation audit alone would take months to untangle if anyone actually looked at the ledgers. But nobody looks because Gideon writes the checks that keep the local politicians quiet."
"I have the ledgers," I said.
The words hung in the empty air between us, small and dangerous as a lit match in a powder keg.
Cormac’s eyes narrowed slightly, fixing on mine with renewed intensity. "What did you say?"
"The digital copies," I said, my voice gaining a strange, reckless stability. "Every offshore transfer, every board payoff, every name he silenced. I copied them to an encrypted drive three weeks ago when I realized he was never going to let me walk away clean. That’s why he was at my throat tonight. He found out I backed up the server."
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Cormac stared at me for a long, silent moment. Then, a slow, grim shadow of a smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"Well," he murmured, pushing off the workbench. "That changes the timeline quite a bit."
