Chapter 9 - THE FROST AWAKENS
Rowan reached down to the side of his wheelchair, pressing a concealed mechanical release built into the titanium armrest. A small, concealed compartment popped open with a soft metallic click. From inside, he pulled out a matte-black Sig Sauer P320 with an integrated suppressor, chambered a round with a smooth, practiced pull of the slide, and rested the weapon on his lap over his linen napkin.
The physical paralysis beneath his waist had taken his legs, but it had not taken his mind, his aim, or his absolute ruthlessness. The man known as the Frost was no longer a solitary figure brooding over an empty birthday table. He was a war commander trapped in an ambush zone.
"Finley," Rowan commanded, his grey eyes locking onto his chief of security.
"Sir!"
"Maeve—Clara—and Piper are still inside this hotel," Rowan said, his voice cold and unwavering. "They are in the staff area or the service pantries on this floor. Moretti’s men are coming to clear this room, and they will take that child to break me completely."
Finley nodded grimly. "I won't let them touch her."
"We go together," Rowan ordered. He placed the old photograph carefully inside his inner jacket pocket, right against his heart, and slid the cream envelope beneath his thigh. "You clear the doorways. I cover the rear. We get to the service elevator, we find Clara and Piper, and we tear our way out of this building."
"And the men who sold you out?" Finley asked, his eyes burning with quiet fury.
Rowan looked at the three-tiered chocolate cake resting beside him. He looked at the thirty burning candles, their flames now flickering wildly as the air currents in the room shifted. He reached out his broad hand, took the bruised white daisy Piper had stuck into the dark frosting, and held it gently between his fingers for a single second before placing it into his lapel pocket beside his silk handkerchief.
"They bought empty chairs," Rowan said softly, his voice dropping into a register that promised total annihilation. "When I'm done with Moretti, I will fill every single one of those chairs with their caskets."
Rowan leaned forward, blew out all thirty birthday candles in a single, powerful breath, sending a thick cloud of white smoke drifting up toward the golden crystal chandeliers, plunging the head table into deep shadow.
May you like
"Move," Rowan ordered.
Finley drew his silenced pistol from his shoulder holster, stepped in front of Rowan’s wheelchair, and began advancing down the long center aisle of the Grand Ballroom toward the heavy oak doors. Rowan followed directly behind him, his broad arms pushing the black titanium wheels with powerful, silent precision, his handgun resting ready on his lap.
