24. NIKOLAI #2
We moved all around the main theater, sweeping behind velvet curtains and painted scenery flats, under risers, and into darkened dressing rooms. Nothing seemed even slightly amiss except one prop table that had been left in disarray, with costume pieces scattered across the floor as if someone had changed in a hurry.
Henri paused at a corner exit door that had a static alarm. He carefully pressed his hand against it.
“Alarm is intact. Looks untouched.”
We moved on, splitting up and checking out every room and closet we came across on the main floor. My skin itched under my collar. All these dead ends were getting on my last nerve.
“Back hallway’s clear,” Henri said after another ten minutes. “Nothing recent in the laundry area.”
We entered a break room that reeked of old coffee and stale food. The fridge buzzed loudly in the silence. Still no sign of Lyla.
She wasn’t here.
But she had to be.
“Let’s regroup in the dance studio on the main floor, east corner,” I ordered. Early sunlight was starting to bleed through the windows. Rory and Julian joined me, tension carved into their expressions.
Then Lucian’s voice came through the comms. “How much longer you guys stayin’?
Streets are waking up. I set the jack just behind the rear tire, making it look like I was changing a flat.
Some cop has driven by twice and is bound to stop soon.
Plus, I think we may have company. I’ve got an itchy feeling someone else has their eyes on this place. ”
I clenched my jaw and paced a few steps before stopping. This search had become infuriating.
She was here. She had to be.
I ran both hands through my hair, then turned away from the group and stared out the window.
Henri’s voice came through the comms.
“Found something. Far west side, just past a wardrobe and props storage room. Looks like a fire exit, but the lock is on the wrong side.”
I was already moving before he finished the sentence.
“Where does it go?” I asked sharply.
“Not sure yet,” Henri replied. “Checking it now for security.”
I rounded the corner and spotted him crouched beside a heavy utility door that was half-hidden behind a rolling garment rack. The frame was old and had been painted over multiple times. No exit sign hung above the door.
Henri eased it open with his shoulder. The hinges groaned softly.
It didn’t lead outside.
It opened into another hallway—dimly lit, narrow, with different flooring and cooler air.
Another building—Midtown Performance and Rehearsal Studios.
My heart kicked up in my chest.
“Rory, Julian—get over here,” I ordered. “Henri, let’s go.”
Not waiting for the others, we stepped through the doorway and moved carefully into the adjacent building.
I would bet money she was in here, and I wasn’t about to let her slip away.
We advanced through the quiet corridors of the second building, clearing rooms as we went.
This place was a complex labyrinth—dozens of studios, black box theaters, and long hallways arranged without much logic.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting greenish shadows against the industrial gray walls.
Every footstep, breath, and hinge squeak bounced off the walls.
Henri pulled open a door at the end of the hallway and swept the beam of his flashlight inside. “This is hopeless,” he muttered into the comms. “There’s a million places she could be.”
“She’s here,” I said flatly. “We push forward.”
I could feel it crawling in my skin now—that tension, that certainty. Like a string pulled taut beneath my ribs. Lyla was close. Maybe she could even hear us. Maybe she was hiding, curled up in some prop closet with her hands pressed to her mouth, praying we weren’t cartel.
Suddenly, I heard soft footsteps.
I held up a fist, ordering Henri to halt behind me.
Somewhere further down the hallway, a door creaked open, then slammed shut again.
Henri raised his weapon, but I directed him to lower it with a subtle shake of my head. The footsteps padded closer. Uneven.
And then she stepped into view.
She was walking down the hallway slowly, hands full and eyes focused on what she carried. Hair wrapped in a towel. Barefoot. Oversized T-shirt down to her thighs. One shoulder visible. Her skin looked flushed, as if she had just showered.
And then she saw us.
She froze mid-step. Her eyes locked on mine, stunned and wide as millwheels.
“Lyla,” I said quietly, hands open, voice calm. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”
She dropped everything and bolted—spun on her heel and ran in the opposite direction, silent but fast.
“Fuck—let’s go!” I snapped, sprinting after her.
She had a head start, and she knew the layout. I turned a corner just in time to see the towel slip from her head and hit the floor behind her. Her wet hair whipped like blonde ribbons as she vanished into another corridor.
I cursed hard, nearly slipping as I took the turn. “Where the fuck did she go?”
“Hell if I know,” Henri panted.
I stopped. Listened. My pulse slammed behind my eyes.
Then—
A scream.
High-pitched and raw.
?Agárrala! ?Agárrala ya, cabrón!
The shouting in Spanish continued, and then there was an unmistakable thud of bodies colliding. A table flipped. Something shattered.
“Lyla!” I was already running. “Henri, move!” I barked. “Rory, Julian, Lucian—surround the outer perimeter now! Delgado’s men have breached the building!”
Static popped. Everyone responded.
Except Lucian.
“Lucian, report.”
Nothing.
“Lucian—where the fuck are you?”
Still nothing.
Shit.
I sprinted down a side hallway and spotted a door cracked open, light spilling across the floor. Lyla’s scream rang out again. I kicked the door fully open just in time to see her being dragged backward toward an exit by two of Delgado’s men.
She fought like a fucking wildcat.
Kicking, scratching, slamming her elbows back into ribs and throats. Her bare foot caught one of them square in the gut, and he stumbled, cursing.
She grabbed the frame of the door, fingers white and bloodless with strain.
“Let go of me! Get off—GET OFF ME!”
The first man ripped her away from the door and dragged her outside.
I was through the door in a flash and gaining on them.
They were headed toward a waiting black SUV.
I raised my Glock and fired.
The round hit the first man in the back of the head. His body dropped like a sack of potatoes—limp, silent.
The second man threw Lyla over his shoulder and ran forward just as the back door of the SUV was flung open. Multiple hands grabbed her. She screamed—writhing, kicking, twisting, clawing at the door.
I charged forward.
Another shot rang out. This time from inside the SUV.
The bullet glanced off the hair on the top of my head. I ducked, rolling behind a rusted trash bin as the vehicle screeched away, Lyla vanishing behind tinted windows.
One of Delgado’s men was still standing on the sidewalk.
I swung around and aimed for his knees.
One. Two.
Both shots landed.
He went down screaming, legs folded under him like snapping scaffolding.
Rory, Julian, and Henri came charging up to me just as I lunged toward the writhing bastard.
“Secure him!” I snapped.
Rory stomped on the man’s wrist when he tried to reach for his pistol. Julian crouched and stripped him of his comms, blades, and phone.
I pulled my phone from my jacket, already dialing DarkMatter. “I want a cleanup crew here now. No witnesses.” I shared the address and ended the call.
Rory flipped the guy on his stomach and zip-tied his wrists.
“Find Lucian,” I growled. “Then bring the SUV around.”
Henri grabbed the body of the man I’d dropped with the headshot and started hauling it toward the curb.
I turned back to the one who was still alive. He lay on the concrete—bleeding, howling, panting.
I grabbed his hair and yanked his head up.
“Where are they taking her?” I asked.
He grinned.
Then spat in my face.
I wiped it off with my sleeve and punched him so hard his head cracked as it bounced off the pavement.
He went limp.
Rory came shuffling back out the door a moment later, blood streaked down the side of his face.
Lucian’s arm hung over Rory’s shoulders, his body a deadweight as Rory half-carried, half-dragged him toward us. Rory’s grip was iron clad—he had one hand clamped around Lucian’s wrist, the other tight at his waist. Lucian sagged against him, boots scraping the pavement with each step.
Lucian’s shirt was ripped and clinging to him with sweat. His lip was split, one eye already swelling shut, and blood dripped steadily from a gash above his brow.
“Found him dragging himself through the building,” Rory grunted. “He was practically crawling, and he’s bleeding like hell from that head wound.”
“Son of a bitch came out of nowhere,” Lucian muttered roughly. “Got behind me—pistol-whipped the fuck outta me.”
“Set him down and go,” I ordered.
Rory lowered Lucian carefully, propping him against a barricade pole jutting out of the sidewalk.
Lucian struggled to pull the keys to the SUV from his pocket.
Rory grabbed them, then took off running back toward the building, shouting over his shoulder, “I’ll get our ride and haul ass to come get you! ”
His boots pounded against the concrete as he disappeared back into the building.
Henri dropped to one knee beside the bastard I’d kneecapped. Blood poured from both the man’s legs, pooling fast beneath him.
“He’s fading,” Henri said. “Could’ve hit an artery—he’s bleeding out fast.”
“He lives,” I said coldly, “long enough to talk.”
Julian crouched beside him, yanking his belt free and wrapping it tight around one of the man’s thighs. “You heard him. Clamp that leg off—tight enough to hurt.” Henri mirrored him on the other leg.
Just then, the man came to, screaming when they drew the belts tight and buckled them down.
A couple of minutes later, tires screeched around the corner, and the SUV skidded to a stop beside us.
We moved fast, loading up.