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At His Side: The Billionaire’s Beck and Call, Part 9


By Delilah Fawkes





I dialed the police, then listened to the ringing on the other end, harmonizing with the squealing tires of Mr. Drake’s car as he rocketed out of the parking lot toward Morton’s Pier. I pulled on the edge of my skirt, my hands restless as I waited for someone to pick up the phone. Mr. Drake’s jaw was set, his eyes glued to the road. Finally, there was a click on the other end of the line. I spoke before the operator could finish his greeting.

Yes, hello? Please, we need to report a crime. It’s an emergency.”

I tried to keep my voice calm even while adrenaline coursed through me at the thought that all those people--people I’d had lunch with, sat with during meetings, chatted with in the break room--could lose everything if we didn’t stop Lex in time.

Mr. Drake’s knuckles were white against the steering wheel as he cut through traffic. I gave as many details as I could to the operator, telling them to send squad cars to look for Alexander Smith at the airport, but that we suspected he was trying to flee the country by sea.

Please, stay on the line, Ms. Willcox,” the operator said. “We’re sending squad cars to meet you at the pier. Don’t make a move until we get there.”

No problem.”

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