On the pillow, the soft hiss of static from the open phone line was my only connection to him.

I closed my eyes, listening to the muffled sound of their boots retreating down the tiled corridor.

Then came the distant rumble of the elevator doors opening and closing.

I lay perfectly still, my hand resting protectively over my stomach, where our baby was.

The minutes stretched out, long and cold.

Outside, the city lights blurred through the wet windowpane into streaks of yellow and red.

Through the phone, I heard the roar of an engine starting up in the parking garage.

The low vibration of the tires on wet asphalt hummed through the small speaker.

I could hear Luke breathing, a steady, controlled sound that did not match the tension in his voice.

“We are five minutes out,” Marco’s voice came through, faint but clear.

“Vivian’s penthouse is on the top floor,” Luke replied.

“If the security feed is dark, someone is already there, or she turned it off herself.”

“I have two men watching the rear exit,” Marco said.