Chapter 18
“Y ou’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter under my breath, staring down at my phone.
I’ve been sitting on this damp bench, two blocks from the Wells office, for over twenty minutes. The rain from earlier this morning still stains the sidewalks a deep gray, and the lingering clouds make sure the sun doesn’t get a chance to dry them. It’s a cool spring morning. Perfect weather, really, other than the text that just ruined my day.
Luis: They’ve already flagged the breach.
Me: What? How?
Luis: Their system caught the injection point almost immediately. I’m guessing someone on their team spotted the vulnerability you used and patched it.
Me: So, no shot?
Luis: I could try to mask the traffic better next time, but they’re already on high alert. The good news is, I didn’t touch the video feed yet, so they don’t know what we were after.
Me: Damn it. Okay. I’ll have to figure something else out. Thanks, Lu.
Luis: Anytime. Let me know if you come up with a Plan B.
I sit back and exhale sharply, letting the phone rest on my knee. My pulse is pounding in my ears. Luis is good. Really good. But even he couldn’t get more than two minutes before Wells’s system flagged the intrusion. It doesn’t matter how they caught it at this point. My plan is a complete bust.
Luis and I met on a job in California three years ago when Peter paired us to dig up dirt on a District Attorney. At first, I’d been prepared for the usual, especially when I learned he was seven years older than me: a guy throwing his weight around, acting like he knows more than he does. But Luis? He’s nothing like that. Straightforward, kind, and respectful right off the bat. He even let me pick which desk I preferred in the cramped apartment Peter rented us.
We worked side by side for five days, and by the end, I was showing him my wireless network exploitation techniques while he introduced me to some of the best reverse-engineering software I’d ever seen. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t hate every second of a job.
When it was over, and we handed Peter the DA’s skeletons—money laundering, of course—we exchanged information. It was just a “you never know” kind of thing, but since then, we’ve kept in touch. A handful of times, we’ve been each other’s second set of eyes, just like today.
Except today didn’t go as planned.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and rub the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index finger. My skull pounds, blossoming into the beginnings of a full-blown headache. The honking downtown traffic grates on my ears, sharp and jarring, as if the entire city decided to conspire against me.
The plan had seemed solid this morning. Luis would disable the exterior feeds, loop the cameras in the underground garage, and keep watch while I slipped in through the side entrance using the key FOB I swiped from the booth attendant yesterday. I’d noticed the employee always leaves it dangling visibly from his belt loop—an easy enough target. When he ducked into a nearby sub shop on his lunch break, I followed. I brushed past him as he reached for a napkin dispenser, my hand quick and precise, lifting the FOB in a single smooth motion. By the time he turned back toward the counter, I was already out the door.
The rest of it was supposed to be quick and clean. I’d even set up a coffee date with Natalie half a block away in thirty minutes, so I’d have a perfectly innocent excuse to be in the area.
But now? Now the system’s on high alert, Luis is locked out, and I’ve got nothing but a useless garage key. A few minutes of video looping wouldn’t have been enough, anyway, not with how tight the timing was.
I sit back and glance at the cloudy sky, exhaling through clenched teeth.
“Plan B,” I mutter, though I have no idea what that looks like yet. My mind races with alternatives, but nothing feels as solid as the original plan. Peter left me with few choices, and looping Luis into this job was already a risk. One he isn’t even aware Peter would flay me for taking. Still, Luis is the only one I trust with something this critical.
A part of me wants to call him back, ask him to try again, but I know it’s pointless. Lu wouldn’t have walked away if there was another option.
After my run-in with Silas last Thursday, reality has crashed down on me with full force. For months, I’ve been trying to find Peter’s information, but I’ve also been playing it safe. Partly because I’m cautious to a fault, but mostly because I started to like it here.
I can’t believe I ever thought Natalie would just be a means to an end. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed someone like her—someone unwavering and kind—until she was right in front of me. Once I had her friendship, I didn’t want to let it go. Being selfish with Natalie also gave me something else: Silas. Or maybe, it cursed me with him. Time spent with her gave me the chance to let this insurmountable attraction between us grow, to learn more about his family, and to question whether they’re truly the villains in this story. Now, I’m so tangled up in them that I hadn’t even noticed the noose tightening around my neck until it was too late.
It’s time to cut the cord. It’ll hurt less if I do it now.
Not that I can, though. Because I’ve accomplished nothing. Luis is already out of their system, but Davey’s team is now fully aware of the breach. They’re locking down every weak point even tighter, likely patching any chance I had of exploiting them again. I should’ve known better. I acted too quickly, didn’t test the software thoroughly enough, and now I’ve tipped them off. Stupid. Amateur.
I thought I’d be crawling under a few cars by now, planting trackers and gathering data. But instead, I’m sitting here. My laptop is back in my apartment in Bucktown, and there’s no way I’ll make it there and back before I need to meet Natalie for coffee.
I could reschedule. Rain check on the coffee and head to Bedford Park or Little Village instead. From my research and the satellite images, both areas are just outside the city and their warehouse districts seem ideal for servers. The Wells might be renting space within a larger warehouse as a cover. At the very least, it’s worth sneaking around to cross them off my list. Natalie will be disappointed, but she’ll understand.
Just as I lift my phone to type out an apologetic message to her, someone sits down on the three-person bench directly next to me several inches too close.
Most days, something like this wouldn’t bother me. Men invading a woman’s space is nothing new in a city like Chicago. Intentional or not, it happens all the time. But for some reason, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
My fingers hover over my screen, contemplating whether I should tell the guy to back off. It wouldn’t be the first or last time I’ve had to put a man in his place, but before I can find the words, he speaks.
“You’re a hard woman to find alone,” he says, his tone too casual. Like he knows me.
My head snaps up. Sitting next to me is an unassuming white man, probably in his late twenties or early thirties. Short brown hair, light-brown eyes, medium build. His features are plain, and he’s wearing a black sweatshirt, dark jeans, and gray sneakers—so nondescript he might as well be invisible.
The kind of man you’d struggle to pick out of a lineup.
My stomach sinks, dread settling heavy in my chest.
“Peter or Harrison?” I ask, my voice hitching at the end. That small sign of fear must amuse him because his smile widens, and he chuckles softly.
“They both send their love,” he replies casually before standing and dusting off his jeans. “Come on.”
I stiffen, my pulse hammering in my ears. Does he really think I’m just going to stand up and follow him like a lamb to slaughter? To whatever hell awaits me at the end of this little walk?
My hesitation irritates him. He sighs, shoving his hands into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. As the fabric stretches away from his body, I spot it: a handgun, its profile unmistakable against the soft material.
My heart stops.
A mother and her young daughter walk past us, hand in hand, oblivious to the weapon inches from their unprotected backs. Would this man do something so crazy in broad daylight?
“Are you really going to make this more difficult than it needs to be?” he asks, his tone laced with thinly veiled impatience.
An unforgiving chill runs down the entire length of my body. I glance at the duo disappearing around the corner, and my decision is made for me. It’s not worth the risk.
I swallow hard and stand slowly, still gripping my phone in my hand. The crowd around us flows on, oblivious. In a place like this, people tend to mind their own business, eyes fixed on their phones or the sidewalks. Not one of them notices the man beside me adjusting the bulge in his sweatshirt pocket with his free hand, his posture casual but precise.
“Where are we going?” I demand, forcing more strength into my voice than I feel. My question hangs in the air unanswered. Instead of responding, he starts walking, gripping my upper arm harshly as he passes. His touch burns, the kind of grip that leaves fingerprints. Even his scent is indistinct—clean clothes smelling faintly of cheap detergent. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look at me, but his hold tightens just enough to keep me in step.
As we move upstream, away from the corporate district, he adjusts his grip. It’s swift, calculated. Before I can react, his hold shifts to my opposite arm, and his steps sync with mine as he slides slightly behind my shoulder, pressing his side into me. From a distance, we might look like a couple taking a casual stroll, his arm draped protectively around my back, keeping me one step ahead for protection. But hidden between us, his sweatshirt pocket conceals the truth: the cold, unyielding barrel of his gun pressed firmly against my ribs.
Every step we take away from downtown grinds that barrel into my side, a reminder of who’s in control. I focus on the pavement in front of me, measuring my steps, but even the slightest misstep earns me a punishing shove of the gun against my skin. My breaths come shallow, but I force them to even out, counting each inhale and exhale. Panicking won’t help me.
Minutes pass, and I realize he isn’t leading me to a car. He’s walking too deliberately, taking turns that suggest a destination within the city itself. Parking down here is a logistical nightmare; even seasoned criminals wouldn’t gamble on securing a spot nearby. That leaves one grim possibility: wherever he’s taking me, it’s close enough to walk.
For almost two weeks, I’ve been bracing for this moment. I knew Peter would retaliate. I just didn’t know when. After what I did and said to Harrison, I knew this was coming. He’s killed people for less. But even with all my preparation, I didn’t expect it to feel like this. Like I’m walking to my own grave, step by step, with no way out.
I’ve imagined Peter a thousand ways in my head: furious, smirking, gloating. But the truth is, he’s not here. Peter never does his own dirty work. He hides behind money and power, letting others carry out his orders. And now, this unremarkable man gripping my arm and shoving a gun into my ribs is his executioner.
I hate that my pulse thunders in my ears. I hate the acidic, consuming fear gnawing at my insides. Most of all, I hate that Peter will know. He’ll know that even though I didn’t beg, I wanted to. God, I want to beg. But I won’t. I’ll never give him or this asshole the satisfaction of thinking I regret anything I’ve done.
The stranger yanks my arm, wrenching me out of my spiraling thoughts as we veer into an alleyway. I stumble but manage to keep up, barely. The world shifts as we step into the shadows. The brightness of the cloudy day dims almost instantly, the alley shrouded in darkness cast by the towering brick buildings on either side.
The air reeks of decaying food, piss, and whatever else people have discarded here. The narrow passage, barely seven feet wide, is cluttered with overflowing dumpsters. Their contents spill out in bloated, blackened bags, creating an obstacle course of filth. He pushes me forward, uncaring, forcing me to weave through the mess. The stench churns my stomach, and bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it down, focusing on my footing.
Just when I think he might shove me into one of the dumpsters to execute me—less mess to clean up, after all—we step into a cleared area farther back. The space is quiet, eerily so. The alley narrows slightly, with no windows or doors to be seen. The other end is boarded up by a weathered wooden fence. We’re completely cut off, trapped in this desolate space.
My heart sinks. Fuck .
The man shoves my shoulder, forcing me to spin toward him as he casually pulls the gun out of his pocket. My stomach drops at the sight of the silencer attached to the barrel. His slimy smirk is the kind that makes my skin crawl, and my body goes rigid as he extends his free hand toward me, palm up, fingers curling.
“Open your phone and give it to me,” he commands, his tone flat, as if he’s tired of even having to say it.
“Why?” I ask, my grip tightening around the device, unwilling to relinquish it so easily. His smirk fades, replaced with an expression of irritation. He curls his fingers again, gesturing for the phone.
“Jesus. You’re as annoying as they said you’d be,” he sneers. “Just do what I fucking say.”
I take a deep breath through my mouth to avoid inhaling any more of the rancid alley air. His face betrays the same disgust at the stench, but he picked this spot for a reason. With the relentless city noise and our location deep in the alley, no one would notice us unless they came right up to it. It’s the perfect spot for whatever he’s planning.
Reluctantly, against every instinct screaming at me not to, I unlock my phone and place it in his outstretched hand. His fingers close around it, and he immediately starts rifling through my settings with the kind of ease that tells me he knows what he’s doing.
For a moment, I stand still, waiting for an opportunity to move, but he’s expertly splitting his attention between me and the screen. My body is nearly vibrating as I try to figure out my next move. “Great. Thanks,” he mutters after a few minutes, slipping my phone into the back pocket of his jeans with a relaxed shrug.
And then it happens.
Pain explodes across the front of my face. My vision goes white, and the world tilts violently as I hit the ground. My teeth rattle from the impact, and I blink furiously, trying to focus. Something warm drips into my eyes. I swipe at it with the back of my hand, only to gasp at the sharp sting as my fingers brush over my forehead. When I pull my hand back, a smear of blood confirms what my throbbing head already knows.
Did he just punch me?
The question barely registers before his hand tangles in the hair at the crown of my head, yanking me to my knees with brutal force. My scalp burns in protest, and a scream rips from my throat, echoing off the narrow alley walls.
Do something, you idiot! Jeff’s voice thunders in my mind, and suddenly, I’m back on the mat with him, hearing his no-nonsense instructions.
With the man distracted by the deadweight he’s hauling up by my hair, I drive my fist into his gut with every ounce of strength I can have. He grunts, doubling over at the waist and releasing my hair. Relief washes over me as I collapse to the ground, but I don’t stop there. With adrenaline surging through my veins, I reach for the space behind his knees with both hands and rip them back.
The move works. He loses his balance, crashing onto his back. I’m on him instantly, my focus zeroed in on the hand still gripping the gun. I grab his wrist and slam it against the pavement over and over, ignoring the searing pain in my knuckles as the force jars my arm. He curses and thrashes while still disoriented, my blood dripping onto his face. After a few desperate attempts to hold on, the gun finally clatters free, skidding across the ground toward one of the dumpsters.
I don’t even have time to breathe before his hands find the ground. With his palms braced against the asphalt, he uses his legs to launch me off his chest, the sheer force of it sends me hurtling over the top of his body. My chest slams into the brick wall. Stars burst behind my eyes as I try to push off it, but he’s on me before I can fully regain my footing.
A sharp blow lands between my shoulder blades, and my cheek slams against the unforgiving brick. The air is forced out of my lungs in a painful gasp. His hand clamps down on the back of my neck like a vice, and his full-body weight presses against me, pinning me in place. My chest burns as I struggle to draw even the shallowest breath under the pressure of his grip.
The stench of garbage and decay is overwhelming, mingling with the metallic tang of blood dripping into my mouth. I try to move, to kick out with my legs, but the angle is wrong. He’s pressed so tightly against me that I can’t gain the leverage I need.
The man lets out a frustrated laugh, his hold on my neck tightening with each huff. “You put up a better fight than I thought you would,” he mocks.
In my peripheral vision, I catch the twisted curve of his smug smile. “Fuck you,” I spit through gritted teeth, though it only seems to amuse him further.
His grin widens as he leans in closer, his free hand reaching behind his back. For what? A second gun? A knife? A condom to leave less DNA behind before killing me? My mind spirals, each possibility worse than the last.
Why didn’t I scratch him? At least the police would have something under my nails to use as evidence.
“Be quiet now,” he murmurs, almost lazily, as if savoring my panic. “The fun’s about to begin.”
I brace myself, every muscle locked as I wait for the worst. But instead of the cold press of metal against my skull or the sound of a zipper being undone, I hear something faint. A ringing. It takes me a second to realize the sound is coming from a phone.
He’s calling someone.
“Hello?” A voice filters through, familiar and warm. My stomach drops into a black abyss as the realization hits me.
Natalie.
Every cell in my body screeches to a halt. The world stops spinning. Time itself stops. My heartbeat freezes mid-thump, replaced by a deafening silence that reverberates through my skull.
No. No. No. NO .
I don’t even register when the desperate words begin tumbling from my mouth, pouring out in a frantic, incoherent plea, bouncing off the walls like an angry echo. He shoves me harder against the brick, growling at me to shut the fuck up, but it only makes me scream louder.
“Scarlett? What’s going on?!” Natalie’s voice is panicked and distant through the phone’s speaker, a lifeline tethered to me by the slimmest thread. I can barely hear her over the rush of blood in my ears, over my own sobs that are now uncontrollable.
The man leans closer, his breath hot against my skin, and taunts me in a low, venomous voice. “Answer Natalie. What is going on?” He holds the phone close to my face, tilting it just enough for me to see her name glowing on the screen of my phone. This is real. He called her.
Why? To lure her here? To kidnap her? Kill her? None of this adds up. Peter wanted this job done quietly. What is this man thinking?
Or maybe it’s not about the job at all. Maybe this is solely about punishing me—because what’s a better punishment than making me witness another friend’s death?
The thought detonates in my chest like a bomb, ripping apart whatever is left of my composure. My brain screams at me to move, to fight, to do something.
With him so focused on keeping me pinned, he doesn’t account for my feet. Grasping for every ounce of strength I have left, I lift my knee and slam the heel of my boot down on the top of his foot as hard as I can. His grip falters, just for a second, but it’s all I need.
With a snap of my neck, I rear my head backward. The impact is sharp, cracking against his face. I don’t even feel the pain—adrenaline numbs everything. He curses loudly, and the phone crashes to the ground near us.
I don’t hesitate. Spinning, I use the momentum to drive my knee up into his groin. The move that worked so well on Harrison two weeks ago delivers again. His guttural wail is a symphony to my ears as he crumples to the ground, clutching himself in agony.
Blood trickles down my forehead, blurring my vision, but I don’t take any more time to look at him. I wipe it away with the back of my hand as I turn and stagger toward the alley’s mouth. My breaths come in ragged gasps, each step heavy and unsteady. My legs are like jelly, wobbling beneath me as though they might give out at any moment, but I force them to keep moving.
Just get to the road.
I shuffle through the garbage-strewn alley, my boots dragging through the muck and piles of rotting trash. I don’t dare lift my feet too high for fear I’ll lose what little balance I have left. My heart pounds so violently in my chest it feels like it might crack my ribs, the rhythm deafening as the opening of the alley grows closer.
The city sounds hit me like a tidal wave the moment I stumble out onto the street. Honking cars. Chatter from pedestrians. The dull roar of a bus engine. The normalcy is disorienting, almost surreal.
But I keep moving, my gaze darting around for anyone who looks suspicious, for any sign that he’s recovered and followed me.
An old woman gasps at my side, her hand flying to her chest as she takes me in. Her wide, horrified eyes rake over the blood on my face, the disheveled state of my clothes, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. Distance is the only thing that will keep him away from Natalie. I don’t have the luxury of explanations or reassurances.
Without a word to her or the other bystanders beginning to slow their steps to stare, I half-walk, half-stumble down the sidewalk, legs wobbling under the weight of my exhaustion. I need to get farther. Safer. I need to call Natalie and tell her I’m okay before she does something reckless like try to find me herself.
I should have grabbed my phone off the ground.
My blurred vision makes it easier to block out the curious, concerned eyes around me. I only speak when one brave woman about my age steps directly into my path, hands hovering at her sides like she’s not sure if she should touch me or not.
“Are you okay?” she asks gently, but the question only irritates me. I interrupt her before she can say anything else.
“What street am I on?” My voice is hoarse, dry, like it’s been scraped against sandpaper.
Her eyes flutter in surprise at my question, but she answers quickly. “You’re on Monroe, heading towards the lake.” She steps closer, placing a light hand on my forearm, her expression softening. “Can I help you? Should I call 911? You really need to get to an emergency room.”
Her kindness is almost enough to crack me, and for a brief moment, the invisible weight pressing on my shoulders feels just a little lighter. But I shake my head and pull my arm from her grip.
“No,” I mutter, shaking my head again as if to dislodge her words. “Thank you.” It’s barely a whisper, but I can’t stop. I have to keep moving. Silas’s building is only a few blocks from here.
Each step grows heavier; the adrenaline that carried me this far is fading fast, leaving me empty and vulnerable. The sluggishness creeps in, dragging me down like quicksand. My vision narrows, but I force myself forward, focusing on the itching sensation of the drying blood on my face to keep from succumbing to the darkness clawing at the edges of my mind.
By the time I reach the towering Wells Corporate building, I’m barely moving. Everything feels distant, blurred, like I’m watching myself from outside my own body. I blink, and suddenly, I’m inside, standing in the pristine ground-floor reception. The bright lights sting my eyes, and the polished marble floors feel like they might swallow me whole.
“Ma’am?” A deep voice calls out, and I flinch at the sound. It feels like it ricochets inside my pounding skull. An older man is walking around the counter, his brows furrowed in concern. His suit is immaculate, his demeanor professional but cautious, like he’s not sure whether to approach me.
“Silas,” I rasp, barely audible. I swallow and try again, my tongue thick in my mouth, words slipping away as fast as I can grasp them. “Davey. I need… I need them to call Natalie.”
The man’s brows knit tighter. “Why don’t you sit down?” He gestures toward a sleek leather couch a few feet away, his voice kind but firm. I nod numbly, my body moving before my mind registers. My steps are uneven, unsteady, but somehow I make it to the couch and sink onto the cold leather.
A woman who had also been behind the counter hurries out, clutching a handful of napkins. Her mouth moves, words spilling out, but I can’t make sense of them. My focus is locked on the man.
“Silas and Davey,” I repeat, more of a mumble now as my head tilts back against the cushion. “I’m Scarlett Page. Natalie’s friend. She’s worried.”
Even in my haze, I see his hesitation. His eyes dart between me and the other people in the lobby—business professionals, delivery personnel, a few suited security guards—all now stealing glances at me from their respective places. Who wouldn’t?
I must look insane.
“Please,” I whisper, the word cracking on my lips. It’s barely audible, but it seems to break something in him. He nods stiffly, murmuring something about notifying them before retreating to his desk. I can see him pick up the phone, speaking quickly, his eyes flicking back to me every few seconds.
The woman kneels beside me, her presence warm but distant, pressing the napkin gently against my forehead. Her voice is soft, instructing me to lay down. The words barely register, but I press myself deeper into the couch. My chest heaves with shallow breaths, and I’m vaguely aware of the man hanging up the phone, nodding in my direction as if to reassure me that he’s done what I asked.
I can’t hold on any longer. My body collapses further into the sofa, and my head rests against the bottom cushion. The last thing I register is the faint, distant hum of voices in the lobby before I give in completely to the darkness.