The heat of Los Angeles hit Grace Wagner the second she stepped out of the jet bridge.
It wasn't just the temperature. It was the suffocating weight of the air, thick with the smell of jet fuel and unwashed bodies.
She gripped the frayed handle of her duffel bag. The canvas dug into her palm.
A luggage transport cart swerved past her. The driver slammed on the brakes.
The tires screamed against the polished linoleum floor.
The high-pitched screech sliced straight through Grace's eardrums.
Her breath stopped.
The terminal around her vanished. The bright fluorescent lights flickered out, replaced by the suffocating darkness of a collapsed building.
The roar of concrete shattering filled her skull.
Five years ago. The rubble. The dust choking her lungs. The blood pooling beneath her.
Her vision blurred into a tunnel of gray.
Her knees buckled. The duffel bag slipped from her sweaty fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud.
Her hands started to shake. The tremors moved up her arms, violently vibrating through her chest.
Travelers in expensive suits and vacation clothes walked right past her. A woman in a sun hat bumped her shoulder and kept walking without a backward glance.
The isolation wrapped around Grace's throat like a physical hand, squeezing her windpipe.
She needed to breathe.
She bit down hard on her lower lip. The sharp tang of copper flooded her mouth.
The sudden pain was a hook, dragging her back to the present.
She grabbed her bag with trembling fingers and stumbled away from the crowded corridor. Her chest heaved.
She needed silence.
Her eyes darted around until she saw the frosted glass doors of an airline VIP lounge.
She dug into her pocket and pulled out a nearly expired guest pass her agent had given her months ago.
Her hand shook so badly she dropped the pass twice before scanning it.
The light flashed green.
Grace pushed through the doors.
The heavy soundproof glass sealed shut behind her. The roar of the airport vanished, replaced by the low hum of air conditioning.
She leaned her back against the door and dragged oxygen into her burning lungs.
She walked straight to the restroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed freezing water over her face.
She gripped the edges of the marble sink and stared at the mirror.
Her skin was paper-white. Her eyes were bloodshot, wide with a lingering, hollow terror.
She grabbed a paper towel, dried her face, and forced her breathing to slow down.
She walked out into the main lounge area, heading for a secluded corner in the back. She just wanted to hide.
She dropped onto a plush chair.
The slight rustle of her jacket made her notice movement on the leather sofa directly across from her.
She stiffened.
A large potted palm tree blocked her view. All she could see were three pairs of tiny, polished leather shoes dangling over the edge of the cushions.
She leaned forward.
Three little boys were sitting in a row, and her sudden movement had caused them all to look up from a shared tablet, their identical eyes now fixed on her.
They were wearing identical, custom-tailored Burberry suits.
They looked exactly alike. Perfect, sharp features. Dark hair. Eyes like crushed sapphires. They looked like porcelain dolls displayed in a high-end boutique window.
Grace froze.
The boy on the far left slid off the sofa. He walked toward her with the confident, measured strides of a CEO entering a boardroom.
He stopped right in front of her.
He reached into his tailored pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief. A silver crest was embroidered in the corner.
He held it out to her. Her forehead was still damp with cold sweat.
Grace's first instinct was to pull away. She didn't like strangers touching her.
But her body didn't move. Her muscles refused to retreat.
She slowly reached out and took the handkerchief.
Her fingertips brushed against the boy's warm skin.
Her heart violently slammed against her ribs. It felt like a physical blow to her chest.
The middle boy pushed up a pair of thin gold-rimmed glasses resting on his nose. He looked at her with cold, calculating eyes.
He tapped the screen of a tablet in his lap. He looked at the screen, then back at Grace.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a satisfied smirk.
The third boy, holding a stuffed bear, practically threw himself off the couch.
He stumbled across the carpet and crashed into Grace's legs.
He squinted, leaning his face close to her jeans. He took a deep breath, smelling her clothes.
Then he buried his face right into her knees.
Every muscle in Grace's body locked up.
But a second later, a massive, crushing wave of maternal instinct flooded her veins. It was heavy and painful.
Her hands shook as she reached down.
She buried her fingers in the soft, dark hair of the boy hugging her legs.
Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned with sudden, inexplicable tears.
The first boy looked her dead in the eye.
"You are going to play with us today," he demanded. His voice was childish, but the tone left no room for argument.
Grace had a Hollywood audition in two hours. She needed to leave.
She opened her mouth to say no.
The word died in her throat. She couldn't say it.
The boy with the glasses walked over and handed her a glass of room-temperature water.
"Your breathing was irregular. Your heart rate is elevated. Drink this," he said.
Grace stared at him. He was maybe five years old.
She took the glass. The water slid down her dry throat. Her defensive walls crumbled completely.
The boy hugging her legs tilted his head up.
His deep blue eyes locked onto hers.
"Pretty lady," he whispered.
The words sent a physical jolt of electricity straight down Grace's spine.
She set the glass down. She pushed her duffel bag under the table.
She wasn't going anywhere.
Grace shoved her frayed duffel bag deeper under the glass coffee table.
She abandoned the audition. Abandoned leaving the airport.
The stiff chair felt like a cage. She rose, abandoning it, and sank onto the plush sofa instead.
The boy who’d offered the handkerchief climbed up beside her, settling on her left. Tiny fingers adjusted his silk tie with unnerving precision.
The bespectacled boy perched on her right. His tablet, already open and glowing, displayed a rapid stream of code. With a final tap, the screen flickered – now showing a live feed of the lounge’s main entrance. He’d sliced through the guest wifi’s flimsy password, hijacking the public monitor feed in seconds.
The third boy bypassed the sofa entirely. He climbed directly into Grace’s lap.
He burrowed into the hollow of her collarbone, resting his head there, eyes closed.
Grace went rigid. Her hands hovered uselessly in the air, terrified to touch the expensive fabric of his coat.
An annoyed sigh escaped him. He grabbed her wrists, pulling her arms down, forcing them into a tight embrace around his small waist.
The heavy, warm weight of him pressed against her stomach.
A sharp ache bloomed in Grace’s chest – a tenderness so intense it hurt.
The boy on her left studied her profile.
"Flawless bone structure," he declared, voice pure Hollywood agent. "Oscar potential."
A breathless laugh escaped Grace. Jaw tension eased.
"Thank you."
The boy on her right didn’t look up from his screen.
"Mass-produced garments," he stated flatly. "Fabric pairing indicates high-level European classical aesthetic."
Grace stared. A five-year-old dissecting fashion theory.
"Who taught you that? Where are your parents? Why are you alone?"
The air froze.
A lightning-fast glance passed between the three.
The boy on her left lowered his lashes, shoulders slumping. "Father is a workaholic," he whispered, voice thick with manufactured sorrow. "Only cares about money. Not us."
The boy on her right tapped his screen. "Handed off to cold, violent bodyguards. Zero freedom," he added tonelessly.
The boy in her lap squeezed his eyes shut. Two perfect tears welled, soaking into Grace’s cheap cotton shirt.
Grace’s stomach clenched. Hot anger flared towards the unseen, uncaring father.
She unzipped her bag’s front pocket, pulling out three cheap, foil-wrapped chocolates saved from her flight.
She offered them.
These boys wore fortunes. Probably dined on gold-leaf desserts.
All three snatched the chocolate without hesitation.
The left boy took a bite, closing his eyes. "Most exquisite culinary experience of my life," he pronounced.
Grace watched them chew.
Suddenly – a high-pitched wail echoed in the back of her skull. A baby’s cry.
Pain exploded behind her eyes. A white-hot nail driven into her temple.
The chocolate wrapper fell. She pressed her palms hard against her forehead, a low moan escaping.
The boy on her right dropped his tablet. He seized Grace’s left wrist with both small hands, squeezing fiercely, pouring stubborn warmth into her, anchoring her against the storm.
The boy on her left leaped up. Ran to the dispenser. Filled a paper cup with hot water. Rushed back, holding it to her lips.
The boy in her lap reached up, chubby hands cupping her pale cheeks. "Don’t be scared," he whispered against her skin. "We are here."
The sharp pain began to recede. Their touch, a lifeline.
Grace pulled all three close, wrapping her arms around them.
Tears spilled, burning tracks down her cheeks. Why?
Then. The floor vibrated.
Heavy, synchronized footsteps echoed outside the VIP lounge. Military boots on linoleum.
The bespectacled boy snatched up his tablet. A red warning light flashed.
His face hardened. "Trouble."
The boy on her left grabbed Grace’s hand, fingers digging in. His eyes widened with practiced terror.
"Please," he begged, the picture of desperate innocence. "You have to save us."
Grace shoved the boys behind her back.
She crept toward the thick glass wall of the VIP lounge, pressing her shoulder against the frame.
Peered through the frosted stripes.
Ten massive men in identical black suits marched down the corridor. Earpieces coiled behind their ears. Movement precise, lethal – ex-special forces, or worse.
The lead man held a radio to his mouth. His face was carved from violence.
Grace’s lungs seized.
Right. Dangerous. They’d hurt the boys.
The boy on her left tugged her shirt hem. Pointed a small finger toward a gray ‘Employees Only’ door at the lounge’s rear.
The bespectacled boy pulled up a blueprint on his tablet. “Corridor leads to underground parking,” he whispered.
No time to question a child hacking airport schematics. Survival instinct roared, drowning the tremor in her hands.
Grace dropped to her knees, ripped open her duffel.
Muscle memory took over. Years of stage combat, prop wrangling, desperate scrabbling – channeled into frantic disguise.
She yanked out a massive khaki trench coat. Shoved the smallest boy inside, buttoning it to his chin.
Dug out a vintage silk scarf. Wrapped it tightly around the left boy’s head, covering his hair, jammed cheap plastic sunglasses onto his face.
Snatched her wide-brimmed straw hat, crammed it onto the bespectacled boy’s head.
She pulled her gray hoodie up, snapping a surgical mask over her nose and mouth. The fabric felt flimsy armor against the terror clawing her throat.
Through the glass, the lead bodyguard pointed at the lounge doors.
Ten yards.
Grace sucked in a breath like shrapnel. Scooped the smallest boy into her left arm. Grabbed the other two’s hands with her right.
Crouched low, using the potted palms as a shield – a trick learned dodging stage managers and paparazzi.
She moved fast toward the gray door.
A bodyguard outside stopped. Head turned. Eyes locked onto the gaps between fronds.
Grace’s heart stuttered.
She slammed back against the wall, pulling the boys flat against her legs, breath trapped in her chest.
The bespectacled boy reached into his pocket. A small black device. Button pressed.
Outside: The bodyguard doubled over, ripping out his earpiece, face contorted by a burst of agonizing static.
Go!
Grace shoved the gray door open, dragging the boys into the bleach-scented, dusty dark.
Behind them: the VIP lounge doors crashed open.
“GONE!” a voice roared.
Grace ran.
Boots slapped concrete. She half-carried, half-dragged the boys down the narrow hall.
The boy in her arms wasn’t crying. He was laughing. Soft, breathless giggles vibrated against her neck – a bizarre counterpoint to the pounding of her heart and the roar of blood in her ears.
Grace clamped her hand over his mouth. “Shh!” Cold sweat snaked down her spine.
The heavy metal fire door loomed. Green EXIT sign glowed.
She hit the crash bar with her shoulder.
The door flew open. Cold, damp garage air slapped her face.
She stepped onto concrete.
Two blinding beams SNAPPED on – searing her retinas. She flinched violently, squeezing her eyes shut and turning her head away, the sudden agony a white-hot spike through her fragile nerves.
A massive, armored black Maybach glided forward in absolute silence.
It stopped inches from her knees, blocking the exit.
The rear passenger door and the front passenger door popped open simultaneously.
More men in black suits poured out, forming an impassable wall around Grace and the boys.
The tinted window of the still-closed rear driver’s side door began to lower silently.
A man sat in the shadows within.
His side profile was carved from arctic ice. Cold. Brutal. Terrifyingly still.
