Page 121 of Knot Unwanted: Part Two

But things are different now.I’mdifferent.

I pull out my phone, dialing Jax.

He answers on the second ring. “Everything okay?”

“Not sure,” I reply, keeping my voice low. “Meeting with Ashgrave went fine, but I’m being followed on my way back. Black sedan, two people inside from what I can see. Been on us since we left the warehouse.”

Jax’s response is immediate, all business. “Where are you now?”

“Heading toward the train station.”

“I can be there in fifteen minutes. Text me when you arrive and where exactly you’ll be.”

“Will do.” I hesitate, then add, “Don’t tell Hailey or Finn. No need to worry them yet.”

“Agreed. Just hang tight. I’m on my way.”

I end the call, turning back to the driver. “Change of plans. Take me to the train station as planned, but don’t wait. I’ll find my way from there.”

He nods, not questioning the instruction. “Yes, sir.”

The rest of the drive passes in tense silence, my attention divided between the sedan still following us and the mental catalog of what I learned from Riordan. By the time we reach the train station, a busy transportation hub in the heart of downtown, I’ve mapped out several possible exit routes,identified potential vantage points where I can observe without being seen, and formulated a basic plan to meet Jax without leading our tail directly to him.

“Thank you,” I tell the driver as we pull up to the curb. “Tell Mr. Ashgrave I appreciate his cooperation.”

“Of course, sir.”

I exit the car casually, not rushing, not giving any indication that I’m aware of being followed. The station is busy enough at this hour to provide cover but not so crowded that I can’t spot potential threats. I enter through the main doors, immediately angling toward the electronic departure board as if checking train times.

From the corner of my eye, I spot them—two men entering the station about thirty seconds after me, both in dark suits, both moving with the controlled alertness that marks professionals rather than amateurs. Not law enforcement—they lack the badge-heavy posture—but definitely trained. Private security, perhaps, or something less legitimate.

I move deeper into the station, pulling out my phone to text Jax my exact location and a description of the men following me. Then I head toward the restrooms. The narrow entrance will create a bottleneck, forcing them to either follow me in, potentially trapping themselves, or wait outside, giving away their position.

As expected, they opt to wait, one positioning himself near the water fountain across from the restroom entrance, the other moving to cover the secondary exit that leads to the platforms.

Inside, I take a moment to check the folders from Riordan, ensuring they’re secure inside my jacket. Then I send Jax another update: two men, dark suits, one at each exit. I’ll create a diversion, head toward the north parking lot.

His response comes seconds later:

Already here. Our SUV, north lot, row C.

A burst of satisfaction cuts through the tension. Jax has always been efficient. It’s one reason he leads our pack, why we all defer to him even when we disagree with his methods.

Now for the diversion. I exit the restroom, immediately spotting the first man still positioned near the water fountains. Our eyes meet briefly—he doesn’t bother pretending he’s not watching me. A warning, then. Not trying to be subtle anymore.

I head toward the food court, moving against the flow of commuters, making myself a more difficult target to follow without being obvious. As I pass a group of college students with oversized backpacks, I “accidentally” bump into one, sending his bag to the floor, spilling books and a laptop across the polished tile.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologize loudly, bending to help gather his scattered belongings, using the commotion to mask my quick assessment of where my followers are positioned. The first man is pushing through the crowd toward me, irritation visible on his face. The second is moving to cut off my potential escape route toward the platforms.

Perfect.

I help the student repack his bag, apologize once more, then suddenly change direction, heading toward a service corridor partially hidden behind a newsstand.

I hear rapid footsteps behind me as I push through the service door, finding myself in a narrow hallway used by station staff. I move quickly, not running but walking with purpose, following signs toward a loading dock that should, if the station layout is standard, connect to the north parking area.

The door at the end of the corridor opens onto a concrete platform where delivery trucks would normally unload. Beyondit, the north parking lot spreads out in neat rows, and there, exactly where he said he’d be, is Jax’s black SUV.

I scan the area for my followers but don’t see them—they’re still inside, perhaps confused by the maze-like service corridors, or perhaps they’ve realized I’m meeting someone and decided to hang back.

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