Chapter 21
JOSIE
The warehouse smells like chemicals and fear.
They’ve got me in what looks like a foreman’s office on the second floor—glass windows overlooking the main floor, a battered desk, filing cabinets that have seen better decades.
My hands are zip-tied in front of me, which is a mistake on their part.
Behind would have been smarter. But I’m not about to point that out.
I’m in a metal folding chair, the kind that digs into your spine no matter how you sit. The cold seeps through my jeans, and I can feel my muscles starting to cramp from holding still. I shift slightly, testing the give in my restraints. Not much, but not nothing either.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised they can’t hear it.
My wrists ache where the zip ties bite into skin. I’m thirsty. I need to pee. And underneath the forced calm, rage is simmering—hot and bright and dangerous.
How dare they.
I’ve spent my entire career putting men like this behind bars. I’ve stared down murderers in courtrooms, faced threats and intimidation without flinching. And now I’m zip-tied to a chair in a chemical-stinking warehouse because these bastards thought I’d be easy leverage.
They have no idea who they’re dealing with.
The fear is still there—I’m not stupid enough to pretend otherwise. But the anger is stronger. And anger, I can use.
Breathe. Focus. Catalogue.
It’s the only thing keeping the panic at bay—turning terror into data, fear into something slightly useful. If I let myself feel it all, I’ll shatter. So I don’t. I shove it down into a box and lock it tight, the way I’ve done in a hundred courtrooms when a case was going sideways.
There are three men in the room. I watch them, waiting to see where their weaknesses are.
The one by the door is muscle—young, nervous, keeps checking his phone. Probably low-level, likely expendable. The one leaning against the filing cabinet is older, calmer, with the flat eyes of someone who’s done this before. He’s the one to watch.
The third is the problem. He arrived twenty minutes ago, and the other two snapped to attention like soldiers at inspection. Mid-fifties, silver hair, expensive suit that’s out of place in this shithole. He hasn’t introduced himself, but I know exactly who he is.
Vincent Caruso.
The FBI’s most wanted. The man Stone and I have been building a case against for weeks. And now I’m zip-tied to a chair in his makeshift office, trying not to let my hands shake.
Think, Josie. You’re a lawyer. Your weapon is words. Use them.
“You know this is pointless,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Whatever you think I know, the FBI already has copies of everything.”
Caruso doesn’t look up from his phone. “Ms. Bright. I’ve been in this business for thirty years. Do you really think I’d go to the trouble of acquiring you if I didn’t already know exactly what you have?”
“Then why am I here?”
Now he looks at me. His eyes are flat, reptilian. The eyes of a man who’s ordered deaths the way most people order coffee.
“You’re here because you’re leverage.” He sets down the phone. “Your biker friends have been a thorn in my side for months. They’ve cost me money, product, and now—thanks to your little evidence package—several key business relationships.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “It was until now. In approximately—” he checks his watch “—four hours, my associates in the FBI will ensure that raid never happens. The evidence will be lost. The case will collapse. And you, Ms. Bright, will help me understand exactly who else might have copies.”
“I’m not telling you shit.”
“Everyone says that.” He stands, smoothing his jacket. “Ivan will be here soon to begin the questioning. I’m told he’s quite... persuasive.”
My blood goes cold, but I keep my expression neutral. “Ivan. I heard he’s your new attack dog after Carlos disappeared. Didn’t that happen after he kidnapped Emma Armstrong? Strange that.”
Caruso’s jaw ticks, his eyes narrowing.
“You’ve done your homework.”
“I’m thorough.” I lean forward, ignoring the way my zip ties dig into my wrists.
“Here’s what else I know, Mr. Caruso. I know you’ve been laundering money through Summit Properties for three years.
I know you’ve got at least two federal agents on your payroll—An agent in the Albany field office and someone higher up whose name I haven’t confirmed yet.
I know about the shipments coming through the port in Jersey, and I know about the warehouse in Scranton where you process the product before distribution. ”
I’m bluffing on half of this—educated guesses based on patterns in the evidence—but the way his jaw tightens tells me I’m hitting close to home.
“I also know,” I continue, “that the FBI agent running this operation isn’t one of yours. Alex Pilkin is a straight arrow. Always has been. Which means your four-hour timeline is optimistic at best.”
“You’re trying to rattle me.”
“I’m trying to help you see reality.” I hold his gaze. “The club knows where I am by now. They’re not going to wait for the FBI. Stone will come for me, and when he does, he won’t be interested in arrests or due process. He’ll be interested in blood.”
“Your biker boyfriend doesn’t scare me.”
“He should.” I smile, and it’s not a nice smile. “You’ve never seen what an MC president does when someone takes his woman. But you’re about to find out.”
Caruso stares at me for a long moment. Then he laughs—a cold, humorless sound.
“I see why he likes you. You’ve got fire.” He moves toward the door. “Enjoy it while it lasts. Ivan will be here within the hour, and I promise you, Ms. Bright—he’s very good at putting out fires.”
The door closes behind him.
I let out a breath, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Okay. Think. What do you know?
Four hours until his FBI contacts intervene. That’s the timeline. If the raid happens before then, Caruso loses. If it doesn’t, he wins and I’m either dead or wishing I was.
Stone knows where I am—Steel tracked the SUV. That means they’re already planning a rescue. The question is whether they’ll wait for FBI backup or come in hot on their own.
They’ll wait. Lee will make Stone wait. Going in without backup is suicide.
But waiting means hours. And Ivan is coming.
I test the zip ties again. They’re tight, but not impossible. If I can dislocate my thumb I might be able to slip free. But then what? I’m on the second floor of a building full of armed men, with no weapons and no backup.
You’re a lawyer, not a soldier. Stop trying to be an action hero and focus on what you’re good at.
Information. I need information.
I scan the office, looking for anything useful. The desk drawers are locked. The filing cabinets too. But there’s a laptop on the desk—closed, probably password-protected, but still. And through the glass windows, I can see the main floor of the warehouse.
It’s exactly what Steel’s surveillance footage showed. Processing tables. Packaging equipment. Stacks of product ready for distribution. A dozen workers moving with the efficiency of a well-run operation.
And guards. I count six on the main floor, plus Tattoo Neck by my door. All armed. All alert.
This is a fortress. Even the FBI is going to have a hard time breaching it.
Unless they have inside help.
I think about the layout. The main entrance is heavily guarded, but there’s a loading dock on the east side—I saw it when they brought me in. And the windows on the upper floor are old, probably single-pane. Easy to breach if you’ve got the right equipment.
Stop it. You’re not planning a raid. You’re just trying to survive until Stone gets here.
Stone.
I close my eyes, letting myself think about him for just a moment. The way he looked at me this morning, soft and rumpled from sleep. The way he kissed me before we left for the rally.
He’s coming and he’s going to be so fucking pissed.
The thought almost makes me smile.
The door opens, and my moment of comfort evaporates.
The man who walks in is huge—easily six-four, built like a linebacker gone to seed. His face is a roadmap of violence, broken nose, scar through one eyebrow, the kind of flat eyes that have seen things and enjoyed them.
Ivan.
My stomach curdles. Every instinct I have screams at me to run, to fight, to do something—but there’s nowhere to go. I’m zip-tied to a chair, and this monster is walking toward me like he has all the time in the world.
I swallow hard, forcing the fear down past the lump in my throat.
Don’t let him see it. Don’t give him that.
“Ms. Bright.” His voice is surprisingly soft. Almost gentle. Somehow that’s worse than if he’d been growling. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Wish I could say the same.” My voice comes out steady. Thank God for small mercies.
He pulls up a chair, positioning it directly in front of me. Close enough that I can smell him—cigarettes, cheap cologne with a metallic underneath. When he sits, our knees are almost touching.
My skin crawls. I want to recoil, to put distance between us, but I force myself to stay still. Any reaction is a weapon he can use.
“Mr. Caruso tells me you’ve been uncooperative.”
“No, I’ve been honest. Just because I’m not telling you what you want to hear, doesn’t mean I’m uncooperative.”
“Doesn’t it?” He tilts his head, studying me like a specimen. “In my experience, honesty and cooperation go hand in hand. People who are honest have nothing to hide. People who have nothing to hide don’t need to be... persuaded.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” He smiles, and it’s the smile of a man who enjoys his work. “Let’s start with the evidence. Who has copies besides the FBI?”
“I don’t know.”
The slap comes out of nowhere—a backhanded blow that snaps my head to the side and fills my mouth with the taste of copper. Stars explode across my vision.
“Let’s try that again.” His voice is still gentle. Still soft. “Who has copies of the evidence?”
I spit blood onto the floor. “Go fuck yourself.”
This time, it’s a punch. My cheek explodes with pain. The chair tips, and I nearly go over before he grabs my shirt and hauls me upright.
“I can do this all night, Ms. Bright.” He’s not even breathing hard. “But I don’t think you can. So let’s make this easy. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll make your death quick. Keep being difficult, and... well.” He shrugs. “I have very creative ways of making people talk.”
My vision is blurring. Blood drips from my lip onto my shirt.
Buy time. Stone is coming. Just buy time.
“The club,” I manage. “The club has copies. They backed everything up to multiple servers. Cloud storage. Encrypted. Even if you destroy everything here, the evidence exists in a dozen different places.”
It’s not entirely true—I don’t know what Steel did with the backups—but it’s plausible enough to make Ivan pause.
“Where are these servers?”
“I don’t know. The club handled the tech side. I just handled the legal strategy.”
Another slap, but lighter this time. Testing me.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m a lawyer, not a fucking liar.” I meet his gaze, refusing to look away. “You want the servers? Go ask Stone. Oh wait—he’s probably out there right now planning how to kill everyone in this building.”
Ivan studies me for a long moment. Then he stands, pulling out his phone.
“Watch her,” he tells Tattoo Neck. “I need to update Mr. Caruso.”
He steps out, and I slump in my chair, every inch of my face throbbing with pain.
Bought some time. Not much, but some.
I don’t know how long I sit there. Minutes. Maybe longer. The adrenaline is fading, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and the steady pulse of pain in my cheek. My lip is swelling. I can feel my eye starting to close.
Stone is going to lose his mind when he sees me.
The thought is almost funny. Almost.
Tattoo Neck hasn’t moved from his position by the door. He’s watching me with the bored disinterest of a man who’s seen worse. I consider trying to talk to him—maybe find a crack in his loyalty—but my mouth hurts too much for conversation.
So I wait.
The sound is so distant at first that I hardly register it. A low rumble that could be thunder, except the sky was clear when they brought me in. It grows louder, closer, and I recognize the sound with a surge of desperate hope.
Motorcycles.
A lot of them.
Tattoo Neck hears it too. He straightens, one hand going to his earpiece.
“Copy,” he says. “Understood.”
He looks at me, and for the first time, I see something other than boredom in his expression.
Fear.
“What’s happening?” I ask, though I already know.
He doesn’t answer. He pulls his gun and moves toward the window, peering out at the main floor below.
The chaos starts all at once.
Shouting. Running footsteps. The crash of the main entrance being breached. Gunfire—sharp, staccato bursts that echo through the warehouse like fireworks.
And then the world turns white.
The flash-bang comes through the window, shattering glass and filling the room with blinding light and deafening noise. I squeeze my eyes shut and throw myself sideways, chair and all, hitting the floor hard as Tattoo Neck screams and fires wildly at nothing.
Stone.
He came.
He came, and now all hell is breaking loose.
I curl into a ball, zip-tied hands over my head, and pray that I survive long enough to see him again.