Chapter 6 The Last Stand

# Chapter 6: The Last Stand

Serving lunch was the most difficult performance of my career. My hands trembled slightly as I poured water and wine for Margot's guests—three stern-faced board members and Dr. Whitman, who avoided meeting my eyes. Each time I entered the dining room, I felt Margot's gaze tracking me, a predator ensuring her prey couldn't escape.

The conversation around the table centered on "restructuring" certain research divisions—Margot's euphemism for burying evidence of the illegal trials. I memorized names and details while maintaining a façade of subservient invisibility.

"The Jensen Protocol has been particularly promising," Margot was saying as I served the main course. "Dr. Whitman's team has accelerated the timeline significantly."

"And the... complications?" asked an older woman with steel-gray hair—Dr. Eleanor Reid, according to her place card.

"Manageable," Whitman replied, his voice carefully neutral. "The benefits far outweigh any temporary setbacks."

"Temporary setbacks," I thought bitterly. "Is that what they call dead test subjects now?"

As dessert concluded, Margot checked her watch. "Harper, please prepare the car. Dr. Whitman will be leaving shortly—you'll be accompanying him to collect some special supplies."

"Yes, Mrs. Blackwood," I replied, my mind racing. This was it—my window of opportunity narrowing by the minute.

In the kitchen, I found Mrs. Peterson supervising the cleanup. "Harper, you look pale as a ghost," she said, brow furrowing in concern. "Are you ill again?"

An idea struck me. "Actually, yes," I admitted, allowing the genuine fear I felt to show on my face. "Mrs. Blackwood wants me to accompany Dr. Whitman, but I—I don't think I can."

Mrs. Peterson's expression shifted subtly. In that moment, I realized she knew more than she'd ever let on about the Blackwood family's darker activities.

"Go to the powder room," she said quietly. "I'll tell them you're indisposed. Take the service stairs to the east wing—no cameras there. Use the groundskeeper's cottage if you need somewhere to... rest."

Our eyes met in silent understanding. "Thank you," I whispered.

"Be careful, dear," she replied, patting my hand. "This house has seen too many tragedies already."

I slipped away as instructed, heart pounding as I navigated the servant corridors to the rarely-used east wing. My phone had no signal—Margot's doing, no doubt. I needed to reach Gideon, but first I had to get off the property.

The groundskeeper's cottage sat at the far edge of the estate, partially hidden by a grove of ancient oak trees. Old Tom, the groundskeeper, was deaf in one ear and kept to himself—the perfect temporary hideout.

I knocked tentatively. When no answer came, I tried the door and found it unlocked. The cottage was empty but lived-in, with fishing gear by the door and a half-finished cup of coffee on the small table. Through the window, I could see Tom working in the distant greenhouse.

I searched desperately for a phone, finding only an ancient landline that, miraculously, had a dial tone. I called Gideon's cell phone, praying he would answer.

Voicemail. I tried again. Same result.

Panic threatened to overwhelm me. Where was he? Had Margot done something to him?

With trembling fingers, I dialed another number—one I'd memorized but never thought I'd use. After three rings, a woman's voice answered.

"This is Meredith."

"Meredith, it's Harper Bennett," I said quickly. "I need to speak with Agent Calhoun immediately."

"Harper?" Surprise colored her voice. "You're supposed to be deep cover. Protocol states—"

"To hell with protocol," I interrupted. "This is an emergency. I need extraction and protection. The Blackwood operation has been compromised."

There was a brief silence. "Verified. Stand by for coordinates."

As Meredith arranged the extraction, I gazed out the window at the mansion that had been my prison and sanctuary for the past months. Somewhere in that massive building, Margot was realizing I'd escaped her immediate grasp. She wouldn't take it well.

Twenty minutes later, I heard the crunch of tires on gravel outside. Peering cautiously through the curtains, I expected to see my extraction team. Instead, Dr. Whitman emerged from a black sedan, accompanied by two men in suits whose bulging jackets suggested concealed weapons.

I'd underestimated Margot's determination. She'd sent her hunting dogs after me.

The cottage had no back door, only a small bathroom window that might be large enough for me to squeeze through. I moved quickly, heart hammering as I heard footsteps on the porch.

The window frame stuck, resisting my efforts to open it. Outside, keys jingled in the lock. With a desperate surge of strength, I forced the window up and climbed through, scraping my side painfully on the rough wood.

I dropped to the ground just as I heard the front door open. Staying low, I crept along the side of the cottage toward the dense woods that bordered the property.

"Check the bathroom," I heard one of the men order.

I broke into a run, abandoning stealth for speed. Behind me, a shout confirmed they'd discovered my escape route.

The woods had been my childhood playground—I knew how to move silently through underbrush, how to use terrain to my advantage. But I was also exhausted, pregnant, and emotionally drained.

After fifteen minutes of hard running, a stitch in my side forced me to pause. Leaning against a massive oak tree, I strained to listen for pursuers. The forest seemed quiet, but that didn't mean I was safe.

My extraction point was a gas station two miles from the estate's boundary—a straight shot through these woods if I maintained my direction. I had to keep moving.

Another ten minutes of careful progress brought me to a small stream. As I prepared to cross, the crack of a branch behind me sent ice through my veins.

"Ms. Bennett." Dr. Whitman's voice, surprisingly close. "Please stop running. You'll only harm yourself—and the child."

I turned slowly. Whitman stood twenty feet away, alone, his expensive shoes and pants muddied from the pursuit.

"Where are your goons?" I asked, scanning the trees.

"Taking a different route. I thought you might respond better to me alone." He took a cautious step forward. "Mrs. Blackwood is concerned about your health."

"Concerned enough to force me to abort my baby?"

Whitman had the decency to look uncomfortable. "The procedure is safe. Routine."

"There's nothing routine about what you're doing," I spat. "For the company or for me."

"You don't understand the bigger picture," he insisted. "The research we're conducting will save millions of lives eventually. Yes, there are... ethical compromises in the short term, but the end justifies—"

"Don't you dare," I cut him off. "Don't hide behind that excuse. People are dying in your trials—people who never consented to be test subjects."

Something shifted in his expression. "How do you know that?"

"I know everything," I bluffed. "Gideon and I have been gathering evidence for months. Files, testimonies, samples—all safely delivered to the authorities."

This wasn't entirely true—we'd gathered the evidence but hadn't yet delivered it—but Whitman didn't need to know that.

Fear flashed across his face. "That's impossible. Those files are encrypted, secured—"

"Not secured enough." I took a step backward toward the stream. "It's over, Doctor. For Margot, for the illegal trials, for all of it."

Whitman's hand moved toward his pocket. "I can't let you leave, Ms. Bennett."

"Are you going to shoot a pregnant woman, Doctor?" I challenged. "Add that to your list of crimes?"

His hand stilled. Conflict played across his features—a man caught between self-preservation and the last remnants of his medical oath.

In that moment of hesitation, the forest erupted with activity. Two figures in tactical gear emerged from the trees behind Whitman, weapons drawn.

"Federal agents! Hands where we can see them!"

Relief flooded through me as I recognized Agent Calhoun, my former handler. The extraction team had found me.

What happened next unfolded in slow motion. Whitman, panicked, reached again for his pocket. A warning shout from one of the agents. The crack of a gunshot. Whitman crumpling to the ground, clutching his shoulder.

Then strong arms were around me, guiding me away as more agents swarmed the area.

"You're safe now," Calhoun said, his familiar gruff voice the most welcome sound I'd heard in months. "We've got you."

"Gideon," I gasped. "We need to find Gideon Blackwood. Margot said she'd detained him somehow."

Calhoun's expression tightened. "We'll locate him. First, let's get you to safety."

The next few hours passed in a blur. A medical examination confirmed my pregnancy was healthy despite the stress. Debriefings with stern-faced officials who recorded every detail of the illegal trials and Margot's involvement. Through it all, one question consumed me: Where was Gideon?

Late that evening, as I sat wrapped in a blanket in a safe house outside the city, Calhoun finally brought news.

"We found him," he said, sitting across from me. "He's alive."

The relief that washed over me must have shown on my face, because Calhoun's expression softened slightly.

"Margot had him detained on false pretenses—alleged corporate espionage. He was being held at the company's private security facility. We've extracted him."

"Is he hurt?" My voice caught on the question.

"Nothing serious. Some bruising." Calhoun studied me carefully. "Bennett, there's something you should know. When we found Blackwood, he was trying to escape—not to run, but to get back to the mansion. He was frantic about finding you."

Tears pricked at my eyes. Despite everything, Gideon had been trying to reach me, to protect me.

"Can I see him?"

Calhoun hesitated. "That's against protocol. You're both witnesses in an ongoing federal investigation."

"Please," I whispered. "I'm carrying his child."

Something in my expression must have reached even Calhoun's professionally detached demeanor. He sighed. "Ten minutes. That's all I can authorize."

When Gideon entered the room minutes later, he looked haggard—a bruise darkening his left cheekbone, his normally immaculate appearance rumpled. But his eyes, when they found mine, blazed with the same intensity I'd grown to cherish.

Neither of us spoke. We simply moved toward each other, meeting in the middle of the room in a desperate embrace. His arms wrapped around me so tightly I could barely breathe, but I didn't care. He was here. He was safe.

"I thought I'd lost you both," he murmured into my hair.

"Never," I promised. "We're fighters, remember?"

He pulled back just enough to place a gentle hand on my stomach. "And the baby?"

"Safe," I assured him. "We're both safe."

Over the next hour—far more than the ten minutes Calhoun had authorized—we exchanged stories of our separate ordeals. As Gideon described his mother's fury upon discovering our relationship and investigation, his expression hardened.

"She'll try to destroy us," he said grimly. "Every resource, every connection she has—she'll use it all to discredit us and escape justice."

"Let her try," I replied, a new steel in my voice. "I'm not just fighting for myself anymore. I'm fighting for our future."

Gideon's eyes met mine, fierce and protective. "We'll face her together."

In that moment, surrounded by federal agents in a nondescript safe house, I made a decision. No more running, no more hiding. I had spent too long in the shadows—first as Margot's reluctant spy, then as Gideon's secret ally.

"I'm done being a pawn in someone else's game," I said, my voice stronger than I expected. "From now on, I make my own moves."

Gideon's smile was both proud and dangerous. "Not a pawn," he agreed, taking my hand. "A queen."

The words echoed in my mind, crystallizing my resolve. Margot had used me, threatened me, tried to control my body and my child's fate. She had manipulated my sister's illness to force my compliance. No more.

I stood, pulling Gideon up with me, feeling stronger than I had in months despite the exhaustion and danger.

"Tell Agent Calhoun we're ready to make our formal statements," I said. "It's time to bring Margot Blackwood's empire down."

Gideon pressed his lips to my forehead in a gesture of solidarity. "Together."

As he moved to the door to call the agents, I placed a protective hand over my stomach, making a silent promise to my unborn child: "Your grandmother wanted to erase you from existence. Instead, you'll watch her fall."