Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Gideon
The tires hummed against the asphalt as I drove toward the meeting point. The world outside my SUV felt strangely distant, the glow of streetlights casting long shadows on the empty road. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ached, but I didn’t ease up. I couldn’t. Not when every second felt like it was ticking down to something I couldn’t control.
I hit the call button on my cell, my throat tight as I waited for Henry to pick up. It rang twice before his voice came through.
“Tell me you have good news.” His words were slightly muffled and distorted, no doubt due to the fact that he was currently on his airplane soaring across the country.
All for me.
“I wish I did,” I said, my voice rough and strained. “All I know is he has Imogene.”
“Who? Vargas?”
I shook my head even though he couldn’t see me. “The same prick who took me.”
“Wait. What? How do you know?”
“I just got off the phone with him. He called me an experiment, Henry. Said he wanted to see what it would take to turn me into a killer, and he did. He forced me to fight for my life, knowing exactly what it would do to me. And now, he’s doing the same thing to Imogene. He’s going to push her, test her.”
“Jesus Christ,” Henry muttered, taking a moment to process this. Then he became the analytical man I always knew him to be. “What can you remember about his appearance? Anything at all?”
“I told you when I first showed up on your doorstep. He never revealed his face. He always stayed in the shadows.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“I need you to do whatever you can to figure out where he’s keeping Imogene. Call Melanie’s dad. He offered to help me take down Liam. No doubt he’ll help with this, too. You should probably reach out to Imogene’s parents, as well. Let them know what’s going on.”
“I should be landing in a little more than an hour. I can?—”
“I won’t be here,” I blurted out before I could stop the words.
“What do you mean?” he asked hesitantly, as if already sensing where this conversation was headed.
“I offered him a trade. Or, more accurately, he offered me a trade. Me for Imogene.”
“You realize it’s most likely a trap, right?”
“Of course it’s a trap. But until you figure out where Imogene is, this is the best option I have. If I go to him, I can buy us more time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time for her to stay alive. Time for you to figure out where the hell she is,” I snapped, my frustration boiling over. I forced myself to take a breath, loosening my grip on the wheel. “Just…time, Henry.”
He was silent for a moment, and I could hear the sound of him typing furiously at his laptop, probably in the hopes of finding something that might stop me from going down this path. But nothing would. This was my only option right now. My only way to get to Imogene.
“I’m supposed to go to an address up in Tustin. I checked it out. It’s just some commuter lot off the freeway. I’m guessing my ride will be waiting there. I have no idea what will happen once I go with them, but I need you to do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Get Imogene out safe. And make sure she’s taken care of if I don’t?—”
“Don’t talk like that,” he interjected quickly. “You’re getting her back. Both of you are walking away from this.”
A bitter laugh fell from my throat. “You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you,” he shot back.
The corner of my mouth twitched at that. Classic Henry, always ready to argue with me when I needed it most. Or give me a dose of reality.
“Please, Henry,” I begged, my voice catching. “If I don’t make it, I need you to promise you’ll get her out. That you’ll do whatever it takes.”
There was a long silence on the other end. Finally, Henry exhaled, a heavy sound that carried the weight of a lifetime of friendship.
“I promise,” he said.
“Thank you. For everything. For always having my back, even when I didn’t deserve it. You’ve always been the one person I could depend on, and I just want you to know how much that means?—”
“We’re not doing this, Sam. If you want to revisit this discussion in forty years when we’re both bickering like two old men about who caught the biggest fish, we will, but we’re not doing it now. Not today.”
“Henry...”
“No,” he cut me off, his voice stronger now. “We’re not saying goodbye. Not yet.”
I smiled faintly, even though my chest felt like it was caving in. “I’ll see you soon, then.”
“Damn right you will,” he said firmly, although I could hear the emotion clogging his throat. Then, after a beat, he added, “Brothers for life, Sam.”
“Brothers for life,” I responded, unsure what else to add.
There was so much more I wanted to tell him, but I knew he’d berate me yet again. Instead, I ended our conversation there, hoping it wasn’t the last time I’d ever speak to him.
The remainder of the drive up to Tustin went by quicker than I anticipated, the traffic unusually light. Before I knew it, I was pulling off the freeway and into the nearby carpool lot, a wide expanse of cracked asphalt littered with cigarettes and discarded fast-food wrappers. A single overhead light flickered in the middle, casting long, wavering shadows over the faded lines.
I pulled into a spot near the edge of the lot, cutting the engine and plunging myself into silence. The quiet was deafening, the kind that made every little noise feel amplified.
Minutes ticked by, each one slower than the last. The darkness outside seemed to press in closer, and my mind raced with every possible scenario about what I was about to face.
Then again, I knew precisely what I was about to face. I’d been here before.
When I first escaped, I swore I’d never do anything to put myself in this position again. That I’d rather die than return to that hell.
That was before Imogene.
I’d do anything to save her.
Even if it meant enduring an eternity of torture.
A train horn blew in the distance just as headlights pierced the darkness, their glare reflecting off my mirrors. My pulse kicked up when a black van rolled into the lot, stopping a few spaces away, its windows tinted so dark I couldn’t see inside.
I shot off a quick text to Henry with the plate number, then shoved my phone into the glove box. Steeling myself for the uncertainty of what was to come, I slid out of my car and approached the van, each step measured, deliberate. The driver’s door opened, and a burly man climbed out, his massive frame silhouetted against the headlights. He was built like a tank, his movements precise as he turned to face me.
“Arms out and legs wide,” he barked, his voice low and gravelly.
I complied as he stepped forward, his hands rough and methodical as they swept over my arms, chest, and legs. When he was satisfied I wasn’t armed or wired, he bound my wrists behind my back with a pair of zip ties, then opened the back of the van, the sight of it reminding me of my years spent in captivity.
“Get in.”
With a nod, I walked forward, climbing inside.
He approached, pulling a hood out of the back of his jeans. The sight of it caused bile to rise in my throat. Memories of other hoods, other times, flashed through my mind, but I forced them down, taking a deep breath. Then he yanked the hood over my head, plunging me into an even deeper darkness.
“Remember the deal. No funny business or the girl dies.”
I nodded just as the doors slammed close behind me.
After a few moments, the van started moving, the hum of the engine vibrating through the floorboard. I focused on the turns, counting them in my head — left, right, another left — trying to keep track of where we were going. But the driver wasn’t stupid. After a while, the pattern changed, the car taking random turns, doubling back, speeding up and slowing down until I lost all sense of direction.
The hood was stifling, the fabric pressing against my face. I tried to steady my breathing, forcing myself to focus. This wasn’t the first time I’d been in a situation like this. This was how we were always transported, with hoods on our heads, making it impossible to know where we were.
After several hours of driving, the van slowed, the tires crunching over gravel as it drove over a long unpaved road. Finally, the van stopped. The back door opened, and rough hands grabbed me, hauling me out.
“Move,” the man growled, shoving me forward.
I stumbled but caught myself, the ground uneven beneath my shoes. The air was different here, sharp with the scent of manure and damp earth.
I tried to make out my surroundings, but the hood was too thick. All I could do was listen, every sound amplified in the darkness. A distant creak, like rusted hinges. Footsteps on gravel. Then we were inside a building, the air thicker with the stench of blood and death.
It sent a chill down my spine, the smell bringing forward memories of the years I spent in captivity.
Another rough shove sent me stumbling into what felt like a small, enclosed space. After my zip ties were replaced with shackles, the hood was ripped off. I blinked against the sudden brightness, my eyes struggling to adjust.
When they did, the first thing I saw was the cell. Bare walls without a single piece of furniture.
The second thing I saw was him.
Agent Myers stood in the doorway, his expression calm and almost amused as he watched me.
“Welcome back, 671,” he said, his voice as smooth and polished as ever, referring to me with the number that was once tattooed on my arm.
My stomach churned, but I forced myself to hold his gaze, masking any hint of surprise or confusion from seeing him here.
His smile widened, a chilling expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”