39. Quinn
39
QUINN
I’m not sure how long I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness, but feelings and sensations hit me in bits and pieces. There’s the rough sway of movement. The bite of zip ties cutting into my wrists. The dull throb on the side of my neck where Malcolm injected the drugs.
I force my heavy eyelids open for a moment, but it’s like looking through a fishbowl as I try to make out my surroundings. We’re moving again, so I must be in a vehicle. A van? A truck? Something with a metal interior.
My body is slumped against something—no, someone. I try to turn my head, but my muscles won’t fully cooperate. Still, I manage to catch a glimpse of dark hair. Nico? Atlas? I can’t tell. My tongue feels too big for my mouth, and I don’t dare risk trying to make any noise.
The vehicle hits a pothole, and my head bounces against the hard metal wall. The jolt of pain is enough to send me back into the waiting darkness.
I wake up again to the sensation of being carried. My body is limp, and my head is resting against someone’s chest. I catch the scent of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne and I know it’s not one of my men. Which means it has to be one of Malcolm’s guards.
“This one’s starting to wake up,” a rough voice says above me.
“Just get her inside,” another voice answers. “Mercer wants them all secured before they’re fully conscious.”
I try to struggle, but my muscles still won’t respond. My arms and legs are dead weight, and even keeping my eyes open takes more strength than I have in me right now.
Through nearly-closed eyes, I catch glances of my surroundings. There’s a dimly lit hallway and concrete walls. I can hear the sound of several sets of footsteps around me. Then there’s the creak of a heavy door, a rush of cooler air, and the distinct smell of dampness.
Someone else says, “Put her in cell three,” and that’s all I hear before my eyes fall fully closed again.
The next time I wake up, my mouth tastes like I’ve been sucking on a dirty penny. That’s the first solid thought that forms in my head. The second is that I’m lying on cold concrete, and everything fucking hurts.
I force my eyes open as far as I can, blinking against the dim light. I’m in some kind of cage with metal bars on all sides, and the space is maybe six feet by eight feet, just big enough for me to lie down or pace in a tight circle.
I push myself into a sitting position, but the movement sends a wave of nausea rolling through me that almost forces me back down. I swallow hard against the urge to vomit, then focus on steadying my breathing until the worst of it passes. Whatever they drugged me with is obviously still working its way through my system.
As my vision clears, I’m able to take in more of my surroundings. The walls are rough concrete, and the ceiling is low with exposed pipes and a few bare bulbs providing minimal light. The air is cold and damp, and it’s musty enough in here to tell me that this space hasn’t been actively used in a while.
I keep scanning the room, and my heart stutters. There are other cages arranged in a loose circle, and they’re all occupied.
Cassandra is slumped against the bars of the cage to my right, and I can see that her platinum hair is matted with dried blood from the gash on her forehead. Rafael is in the cage next to hers, still unconscious. Owen is across the room, moving slowly and grunting like he’s beginning to regain consciousness. And then I see my men.
“Fuck.” I shudder at the stabbing pain in my heart as my eyes find each of them in separate cage.
Malcolm has made sure to keep us apart this time.
I crawl to the side of my cage closest to them, ignoring the pounding in my head and the churning in my stomach. Atlas is directly across from me, and his face is partially covered in dried blood from a deep cut near his right eye. His hands are curled around the bars of his cage, and his knuckles are raw and split.
To his left is Nico, sporting a huge bruise that runs from his cheekbone up to his hairline, turning purple and blue against his skin. His lip is busted open and swollen to almost twice its normal size.
Killian is in the cell on the other side of Nico, and I can tell he has several cuts along his jawline. His shirt is ripped and stained with blood—probably as much from Malcolm’s guards as his own—and I can see through the tattered fabric that his ribs are bruised as well.
They fought like hell. We all did.
The sight of them makes my chest ache. This is my fault. They wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for me. They wouldn’t have been caught in Malcolm’s trap if they hadn’t agreed to help me take him down.
I know they wouldn’t have ever let me face Malcolm alone, but seeing them caged and bleeding is too much for me to handle, and the guilt is overwhelming.
“Quinn,” Atlas’s voice is rough but steady. His eyes find mine across the space between our cages. “Are you okay?”
I almost smile, because of course he’s worried about me first and foremost. Still, nothing about this situation is okay. We’re trapped in cages in some kind of warehouse or basement with Malcolm and Elliot planning god knows what for us, and he’s asking if I’m okay.
“I’m alive,” is all I manage to say. And then, because I need to know, “Are you?”
“Takes more than a few of Malcolm’s goons to put me down for good,” he says, but I can see the stiffness in his movements as he shifts position. He’s hurting worse than he’s letting on.
Nico’s eyes flutter open, and he slowly shakes his head as he looks over at me. “Quinn,” he says, and just my name on his lips makes my heart clench. “You’re awake.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m here.”
Killian is the last to stir, but his eyes snap open with sudden alertness, immediately scanning the room with the kind of predatory focus that I’ve come to expect from him. When his eyes land on me, something in his expression shifts—relief, maybe, or the closest thing to it that Killian is capable of showing.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, and I know he’s looking for injuries beyond the obvious bruising on my face from the fight.
“I’m okay,” I tell him. “Just drugged.”
“Same,” Nico nods, rubbing at his neck. “Whatever they gave us was strong.”
“Malcolm wouldn’t want to risk any of us being conscious while they brought us here,” Atlas says. “Not after what happened at the hookah bar.”
The memory of the ambush flashes through my mind—Elliot shooting Imogen in the head, Malcolm’s guards flooding in, and the brutal fight that followed. Then the fear that my men might be killed right in front of me.
“I thought they might just kill us there,” I admit, swallowing hard.
Nico shakes his head. “Malcolm is gonna make us fucking suffer after what we tried to do.”
The brutal honesty of his words sends a chill down my spine, because I know he’s right. This isn’t going to end quickly or painlessly.
A groan from the other side of the room draws my attention. Owen is awake now, pushing himself up to his knees and looking around with wild eyes.
“What the fuck?” he groans, shaking his head as if to clear it. He runs his hands along the bars of his cage, testing them. “Goddammit.”
One by one, the others start to wake as well. Cassandra shifts, wincing as she touches the dried blood on her forehead. Rafael’s eyes open slowly, his usual alertness dulled by the lingering drugs in his system.
“Everyone check in,” I call out, trying to keep my voice steady. It feels important that we all know who made it here alive. “Cassandra?”
“I’m here,” she says. “But I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
“Rafael?”
He grunts an acknowledgment, probably not quite ready for full sentences yet.
Owen ignores my attempt at a roll call, instead pushing himself to his feet and grabbing the bars of his cage. He shakes them until the metal starts rattling, but it doesn’t give even a fraction of an inch.
“Let us the fuck out!” he shouts. “Malcolm, you fucking psychopath!”
“That’s not helping,” Cassandra snaps at him.
Owen ignores her, continuing to rattle the bars and yell. His panic is contagious, and I feel my own heart rate pick up. Where the hell are we? Does anyone know we’re here? Is there any chance someone might come to help us, or are we all just waiting to die?
But I can’t let them see me panic. Not when my men are watching and staying calm even though their whole world is falling apart right alongside mine. Not when we need clear heads if we’re going to have any chance of survival.
“Owen,” I hiss. “Enough. You’re wasting energy you’ll need to conserve.”
He stops shouting, but there’s no mistaking the rage in his glare when he turns to me.
“Don’t you fucking tell me what to do,” he growls and points an accusing finger at me through the bars. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for you.”
“Quinn isn’t the only one who—” Cassandra starts to say, but he isn’t paying any attention to her.
“You,” he interrupts. “You came into the Dark Lotus Syndicate and started rocking the fucking boat when you should’ve kept your head down and minded your own damn business. We had everything under control until you showed up and started stirring shit.”
“That’s bullshit,” Atlas cuts in. “Malcolm is a fucking parasite. He’s been using all of you for years.”
But he’s too full of fear and anger to listen to reason. “I should never have fucking trusted any of you. And Elliot—that backstabbing motherfucker. He was just entrapping us, just fucking us over so he could reap the benefits by being in Malcolm’s good graces.”
His words sting because there’s a kernel of truth in them. If I’d just suffered through being Malcolm’s wife, if I hadn’t tried to fight back, none of them would be here right now. But that doesn’t mean I was wrong to try.
“You agreed to help because you hated Malcolm too,” I remind him. “We all did. Don’t act like I forced you into anything.”
“Fuck you,” Owen snarls. “You think your little rebellion was worth this? Worth dying for?”
Rafael shifts in his cage, finally finding his voice. “He’s right. We had a good thing going before?—”
“A good thing?” Cassandra cuts him off with such force that we all turn to look at her. She’s on her feet now, with her blood-matted hair hanging in her face. But her eyes are clear and blazing with anger. “Are you fucking kidding me? What part of it was good, exactly? The part where Malcolm made us his puppets? Or the part where he dangled our dead loved ones over our heads as bait to lure us into his twisted little dictatorship?”
Rafael opens his mouth, but Cassandra isn’t finished.
“We’ve all been trapped in this shit for way too long,” she says, gripping the bars of her cage. “And let’s be honest—it was always going to end this way. Malcolm took someone from each of us before he offered us a place in the Dark Lotus Syndicate, and he was always going to take more. It’s what he does because it’s all he knows how to do.”
She turns to look at me. “At least Quinn had the guts to get out on her terms, to try to take him out instead of just rolling over and letting Malcolm decide when and how to destroy us.”
I feel a rush of gratitude toward her that I hadn’t expected. I barely know Cassandra aside from our handful of interactions at Syndicate meetings, but her words hit home.
Owen scowls at her. “Is that what you really think? That this suicide mission was our best option?”
“It’s what Imogen thought,” Cassandra says. “She believed in this plan. She believed we could win our freedom back if we stood up to him together. And we would’ve if Elliot hadn’t sold us out.”
The mention of Imogen’s name changes something in Owen’s face. The tension in his jaw doesn’t exactly disappear, but it shifts, changing from rage into something else. Grief, maybe. Or regret.
“Imogen is dead,” he says flatly, but most of the fight has drained from his voice.
“Yeah.” Cassandra nods. “And she died trying to free herself from Malcolm’s control. Are you going to make her death meaningless by giving up now?”
Owen doesn’t answer right away. He sits down heavily on the floor of his cage and scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck,” he mutters. Then, after a moment, he nods. Just a small movement, but it’s enough.
“So what now?” Rafael asks, looking around at all of us. “How the hell do we get out of here?”
“Does anyone know where ‘here’ even is?” Atlas asks, scanning the room.
Cassandra squints up at the ceiling, then around at the walls before her eyes widen slightly. “This is Elliot’s place,” she says. “One of his warehouses on the east side of town, near the river.”
“You’re sure?” Nico asks.
She nods. “I’ve been here before. Not in this part of it, but I recognize the structure. Elliot conducts most of his business out of this complex.”
“What kind of business?” Killian asks, although his tone tells me he already knows the answer.
“Human trafficking,” I answer. My stomach churns as I look around at the cages with new understanding. “That’s what these are for, isn’t it? For the people he sells.”
Cassandra nods grimly. “For the ones in transit. He gathers them here before they’re shipped out to wherever they’re going.”
The thought makes my skin go cold. How many terrified people have sat where I’m sitting right now, not knowing what was going to happen to them? How many were begging for a rescue that never came?
“Jesus,” Rafael mutters, looking around with a new awareness. “I knew his operation was sketchy as fuck, but I didn’t think…”
“You didn’t want to know,” Cassandra finishes for him. “None of us did. That’s how Malcolm kept us all in line. We each did our own thing and didn’t ask questions about what the others were doing.”
I think about the phone with the panic button Willow gave me. I hit it before they drugged me, I’m sure of it. But what good will it do? The ping would only have let Willow and her men know where we were at that moment, not where we’ve been taken.
If Willow and her men went to the hookah bar looking for us, they’d find nothing but bullet holes and blood stains by now. Malcolm’s men would have cleaned up everything else.
Even if they somehow figured out that we’d been moved to one of Elliot’s properties, how would they know which one? And what if we’re moved again before they can find us?
The sound of a heavy door opening somewhere above us cuts through our conversation. Multiple sets of footsteps echo on what must be metal stairs, getting closer.
“They’re coming,” Cassandra whispers.
I lock eyes with each of my men, trying to draw strength from their presence even though we’re all caged like fucking animals. Atlas gives me a small nod—steady and calm. Nico’s eyes burn with intensity, and Killian’s expression is pure, cold determination.
Malcolm appears first, with Elliot right on his heels like a good little lapdog. Both are still in the same clothes they wore at the hookah bar—a safe bet that not too much time has passed between then and now.
Malcolm stops at the entrance to the room and looks at us like he’s examining livestock. His eyes find mine last, and the hatred I see there is matched only by the fury churning in my gut.
“Comfortable?” he asks, his smug smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “I do hope the accommodations are suitable. Some of you will probably be here for a little while.”
Some of us. The fact that he only hints at the threat makes it even more ominous.
“Fuck you,” Atlas growls, and Malcolm’s gaze shifts to him.
“Ah, yes. Quinn’s faithful attack dogs.” He walks slowly toward Atlas’s cage. “Growling and snapping, but ultimately powerless. Just like you always were.”
“What do you want, Malcolm?” I ask, not willing to let him focus all his attention on my men. “Why not just kill us at the hookah bar?”
He turns back to me, his smirk turning to a slow smile that spreads across his face. “Because, my dear, there are rules. The Dark Lotus Syndicate has a code, and that code must be upheld. Even in times of rebellion.”
“Rules?” Cassandra laughs bitterly. “Since when do you care about rules? You break them whenever it suits you.”
“I adapt them,” Malcolm corrects her. “But the core remains the same. And the core states very clearly that betrayal is punishable by death.” He looks around at all of us. “For betrayal to the Dark Lotus Syndicate, all of your lives are forfeit.”
My jaw clenches. I’ve never wanted to kill someone as badly as I want to kill him right now. “So you’re going to kill us all?” I ask, forcing the words out.
Malcolm’s smile widens, cruel and vicious in the dim light. “Yes.” He pauses. “But I’m not in any hurry.”
He turns to look at Elliot, who’s been standing silently at his side. “We’ll have a little fun first.”