Chapter 25 #2
The rubble shifted. For one moment, she thought she saw movement—
Then hands closed around her from behind.
For one desperate second, she thought, Callum. Theo. Someone from the team.
She twisted to look, and the hope died. Two men she’d never seen before, tactical gear, faces hard and blank. Not rescuers. Hunters.
She fought. Twisting, kicking, her body operating on instinct. But there were two of them, then three, pinning her arms, forcing her to her knees.
This had all been a trap. All of it.
She screamed Lincoln’s name as they dragged her away from the wreckage. Screamed until her throat tore. The flames grew smaller as they hauled her deeper into the building, away from the collapsed corridor, away from any chance of reaching him.
They pulled her through a loading dock entrance, into a section that hadn’t collapsed. Morgan’s struggles weakened as reality settled into her bones.
Lincoln hadn’t made it out behind her. Neither had Derek or Bear.
The men yanked her through a doorway, down another corridor.
Her feet scraped against concrete. She tried to find purchase, tried to slow them down, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate and there were too many hands holding her.
The smoke thinned as they moved deeper into the undamaged section of the building.
Away from the fire. Away from the rubble.
Away from Lincoln.
She couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t let herself picture him under the concrete and twisted metal. If she started, she wouldn’t stop. She’d shatter into pieces too small to ever reassemble.
Not yet. Hold it together. He’d want you to hold it together.
They brought her to an open space—industrial shelving against the walls, battery-powered lights casting harsh shadows. And there, waiting, was Randall.
He looked exactly as she remembered. Clean-cut.
Expensive suit, even here, even now. The same flat, assessing eyes that had watched her bleed onto warehouse floors.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, perfectly still, like a man who’d been waiting for a delivery and was pleased to see it finally arrive.
“Morgan.” He said her name like he was greeting an old colleague. “You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble.”
She didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Her eyes had found what sat beside him on the concrete floor.
The box.
Four feet by four feet by four feet. Maybe the same one. He’d brought it here. For her.
The sight of it slammed into her chest. Darkness. No room to stand. The smell of metal and her own fear. Her lungs locked. Her vision tunneled. The walls were already pressing in, already crushing her, already—
Stop.
The command came from somewhere deep. From the part of her that had survived twelve foster homes. From the part that had sent coordinates in broken poetry when she had nothing else.
From the part that sounded, impossibly, like Lincoln.
Don’t give him this. Don’t let him see you break.
Morgan forced air into her lungs. Forced her spine straight. She would stand on her own for as long as she could.
Randall watched her pull herself together. Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe. Or disappointment that she hadn’t crumbled at the sight of the box.
“I have to admit, I’m impressed you stayed hidden this long.” He began circling her slowly. “I couldn’t figure out how you were able to stay so hidden. Became much clearer after we were able to figure out your boyfriend’s identification. Tsk, tsk, Morgan. Or should I call you Mercury?”
Mercury. Randall had found all her messages with Lincoln.
“That’s right. Those sweet messages weren’t hard to find once I was looking. Of course, I never would’ve looked if my men hadn’t spotted you two in Montana. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase you can’t go home again? Pretty sure that saying is exactly for reasons like this.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Thomas Wolfe had you in mind when he wrote it,” she muttered.
“It took time to trace Lincoln Bollinger.” Randall stopped in front of her. “Impressive security. So I knew I had to draw you out here, let him think he was three steps ahead of me. Men like him are predictable. They think they’re the smartest person in every room.”
Morgan said nothing. Kept her eyes off the box.
“Once I realized you were working with a computer genius, I knew it was only a matter of time before you found the database that would make all the details in your pretty little head make sense. So, I set all this up.”
She looked up at him then.
“That’s right. This little client meeting was completely manufactured to draw you out.
The vulnerable moment Bollinger thought he was exploiting never existed.
” Randall glanced toward the burning section of the building.
“He and his little pals walked into this believing he had the advantage. They were wrong. I had to sacrifice a few of my men too, but it was worth it to get you back.”
The words landed like blows, but Morgan didn’t let herself feel them. Not yet. She couldn’t afford to feel them yet. Lincoln was dead. Bear. Joy’s baby would never know its father.
Not yet. Feel it later. Right now, survive.
“No rescue is coming, my little filing cabinet,” Randall continued. “No cavalry. You’re going to disappear. And this time, believe me, no one will ever find you. It’s time for us to get going. I know this warehouse is in the middle of nowhere, but the fire department will still eventually come.”
She stared at the box. At the darkness waiting inside.
Randall smiled. “Why don’t you go ahead and get back in. You and that box are going to be spending a lot of time together.”
And something cold and clear began to form in her chest.
Lincoln may be gone, but he wouldn’t want her to collapse. Wouldn’t want her to give in. He would want her to fight.
He had taught her she was valuable. That she was worth loving.
They’d both shown each other that their strange minds weren’t burdens to be tolerated, but something extraordinary.
She was not going back in that goddamn box.
The certainty crystallized. She was not going to spend the rest of her life serving the man who’d murdered Lincoln. She was not going to memorize and bleed and exist as a capacity to be filled.
If Lincoln was dead, she had nothing left to lose.
Randall’s guard stood to her left. Close. The weapon holstered at his hip almost within reach.
Morgan measured the distance. Calculated the angle. Let her shoulders slump like she was giving up, like the fight had drained out of her.
The guard relaxed. Just slightly. Just enough.
She lunged, her hand closing around the gun’s grip in the holster, and she yanked it free. Spun away from grabbing hands.
She leveled the weapon at Randall’s chest.
The guards froze. Randall raised one hand, a calm gesture that halted them in place. His expression didn’t change—still that flat, professional assessment. Like she was a problem to be solved rather than a threat to be feared.
“You won’t shoot me.” His voice was almost gentle. “You’re not a murderer, Morgan. We both know that.”
“Maybe not.” Her hand was shaking. The gun wavered. “But I don’t have to be.”
She turned the barrel and pressed it to her own temple.
Everyone went still.
Randall’s face went blank. The composure cracking as he processed variables he hadn’t anticipated.
“You should have thought,” Morgan said, her voice steady even as her hand shook, “about how you’d get me to cooperate before you killed the only person who ever loved me.”
The gun’s barrel was cold against her skin. Real. Solid. The one variable she still controlled.
“Put it down, Morgan.” Randall’s voice had shifted—careful now. “You’re not going to shoot yourself.”
“You don’t know what I’ll do.” Her finger rested on the trigger. Light pressure. Enough that he could see she meant it. “You never did. You thought you could break me with a box and a knife. You thought you could turn me into a filing cabinet. But I’m still here. And I decide how this ends.”
“Think about what you’re doing.”
“I have. For weeks. Every time I woke up remembering what you did to me. Every time I looked at the scars you gave me.” The tears came, but her hand didn’t waver. “You took everything. My career. My freedom. And now Lincoln. So tell me—what do I have left to lose?”
For one stretched moment, she saw it in his eyes. Uncertainty. The realization that he’d miscalculated something fundamental about her.
But then the guard lunged.
Morgan saw him coming but couldn’t move fast enough. His hand closed around the barrel, wrenching it sideways. The gun discharged into the ceiling—the sound deafening—and then another guard was there, grabbing her arms, forcing them behind her back.
She fought. Kicked. Twisted. But she was exhausted and outmatched, and they forced her to her knees on the concrete.
Randall stood over her. The mask was back, but something colder lurked underneath. She’d surprised him. Embarrassed him.
“I was going to give you time to adjust,” he said quietly. “But I think you need a reminder of what happens when you make things difficult.”
His hand closed in her hair. Fingers wrapping tight, pulling until her scalp screamed. She gasped as he stood, dragging her with him, her feet scrambling for purchase.
He pulled her toward the box.
Morgan dug her heels in. Twisted against his grip. The guards followed close behind, ready to intervene.
The box loomed larger with every step. Its door stood open, darkness waiting inside like something hungry.
“No.” The word came out broken. “No—”
Randall didn’t respond. Just kept pulling.
The darkness reached for her. The walls pressed in before she was even inside, her mind collapsing the distance. She couldn’t breathe. Could only feel the pull toward the thing she feared most.
Lincoln was dead. No one was coming. Her defiance had failed.
This time, the darkness would keep her forever.
Randall shoved her forward, and Morgan fell toward the waiting void.