11. Malia
ELEVEN
Malia
“No!” Walt’s shout echoes across the parking lot as strong hands drag me backward. I fight—kicking, clawing, desperate to reach him as he staggers, blood blooming across his white shirt.
The bullets hit him because of me.
Because he tried to protect me.
“Walt!” I scream his name as he crumples to his knees. His eyes lock with mine, filled with a fury I’ve never seen before. Even bleeding, even falling, he tries to reach for me.
“Enough.” The word comes cold and precise as rough hands grab my arms. I thrash against their grip, but these men are professionals. My struggles might as well be a child’s for all the good they do.
“Please,” I beg as they drag me toward the waiting SUV. “He needs help. You can’t just leave him?—”
A rifle butt slams into Walt’s stomach. He doubles over and hits the pavement hard. One of the men kicks him, and my scream splits the night.
“Stop! Please stop!”
They shove me into the SUV’s back row, two suits sliding in to bracket me. Through the windshield, I can still see Walt. Still see him trying to push himself up, blood pooling beneath him on the asphalt. His lips move—my name, I think—before another blow sends him sprawling.
Malikai is forced into the middle row ahead of me, two more suits caging him in. He won’t look at me. Won’t look at anything except his hands twisting in his lap.
The doors slam shut with military precision. The engine roars. As we accelerate away, I press my hands against the tinted window, watching Walt’s body grow smaller until darkness swallows him completely.
The SUV hurls us through the night, every turn slamming me between the two operatives bracketing me in the third-row seat. Their shoulders form an immovable wall on either side, expensive suits unable to hide the military muscle beneath.
I can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop seeing Walt fall, his shirt blooming red as the bullets punched into him. The way he tried to reach for me even as his legs gave out.
The SUV’s leather seat still holds that new car smell, but all I can smell is copper—Walt’s blood on my hands, my dress, smeared across my skin where I tried to reach him. My stomach heaves. The operative on my right shifts slightly, creating an inch more space, but it’s not kindness. Just practicality. They don’t want me getting sick in their vehicle.
“Walt!” The name tears from my throat before I can stop it.
The operative on my left—older, with steel-gray hair and a face like carved granite—squeezes my arm in silent warning.
“Quiet.” The command comes from the man to my right—suit pristine despite the violence, his face expressionless as marble. Professional. Cold.
Malikai sits rigidly on the center bench, his head bowed, his glasses reflecting the passing streetlights.
Two more suits bracket him, just like me. He hasn’t looked at me once since they forced us into the SUV. He rocks back and forth, likely counting prime numbers the way he always does when he’s stressed.
But this isn’t normal academic pressure. This is something much darker.
The driver takes another corner too fast, and my shoulder slams into the man on my right. He doesn’t budge, solid as a brick wall. I’m caged, trapped in the back row between living barriers while we speed further from the only man who might be able to help us.
If he’s still alive.
The image of him falling flashes again—the way his body jerked as the bullets tore into his flesh, the terrible finality of him sprawled on the pavement. How much blood can someone lose and still survive?
“He’s going to die.” The words come out raw, broken. “You shot him. You left him there to die.”
Another suit speaks from the passenger seat, his tone clipped and efficient. “Your boyfriend’s fate is no longer your concern.”
Boyfriend. The word catches in my chest. We never even got the chance to…
“Malikai.” I lean forward, trying to see him better between the seats. “What’s happening? Who are these people?”
“I’m sorry.” The words barely carry over the engine’s growl. “I’m so sorry, Sissy. I never meant… They weren’t supposed to…”
“Enough.” The suit beside me yanks me back against the seat. “You know the rules, Professor. No talking.”
These men know exactly who my brother is—what he does. This isn’t random.
I force myself to breathe, to think past the panic clawing at my throat. Walt taught me to observe and gather intel; right now, it’s the only way I can honor him.
Six men total. Two with me in the back row, two with Malikai in the center, and two up front. Expensive suits that can’t hide their military bearing.
Earpieces.
Weapons holstered.
These aren’t random thugs—they’re professionals.
“Your brother’s been remarkably uncooperative.” The suit in the passenger seat studies me through the rearview mirror with clinical interest.
“Leave her alone.” Malikai’s voice cracks.
“I don’t understand.” But even as I say this, pieces start clicking into place: Malikai’s strange behavior at dinner, his evasive answers about his research, and the mysterious phone calls. “What do you want from him?”
“Motivation to complete his work without—complications.” The man shifts his attention to my brother. “Your presence will help him focus on what matters.”
I look at Malikai again, really look at him. In the dim light, his skin holds a sickly, ashen hue, the faint undertone of exhaustion etched into every sharp line of his face. His clothes hang loose—he’s lost weight since I last saw him. This isn’t new. Whatever’s happening has been building for weeks, maybe months.
“Kai?” I keep my voice soft, the way I did when we were kids, and he’d get lost in his equations. “Talk to me. Please.”
He shakes his head frantically, still rocking between his guards. “I can’t. They’ll hurt you if I … I can’t.”
“We’re merely ensuring cooperation.” The passenger suit’s voice holds no emotion. “Your safety depends entirely on your brother’s choices.”
The casual threat sends ice through my veins. These men will hurt me—kill me—without hesitation if Malikai steps out of line. And my brother knows it.
Malikai stares out the dark window, his reflection showing a haunted expression I’ve never seen before. His hands twist in his lap, and I catch fragments of whispered numbers—prime numbers, his way of trying to impose order on chaos.
“You should have cooperated from the beginning.” The suit beside Malikai speaks for the first time, his voice oddly gentle. “Family makes things—complicated. Messy. But often necessary.”
Malikai slumps in his seat, defeated. His lips move silently—more equations, trying to make sense of a world that’s stopped following logical patterns.
“How much farther?” The driver’s question carries.
“Twenty minutes.” The passenger suit checks his watch. “Right on schedule.”
I close my eyes, trying to remember every detail of the route. Three right turns after leaving the restaurant. Highway entrance heading east. Now trees and darkness stretch endlessly ahead.
Walt would track these details automatically. Walt would know what to do.
Walt might be dead.
The thought hits like a physical blow. I press my fist against my mouth, fighting back a sob. I can’t think about that now. Can’t let myself remember how still he looked, sprawled on the pavement as they dragged me away.
Focus. Observe. Plan.
The suits are armed but professional—they won’t shoot without orders. They need Malikai alive and cooperative. Need me alive as leverage. That gives us some protection, however small.
My brother’s work—whatever it is—matters enough to kidnap and kill.
And Walt …
I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering his strength, his protection, and his promises. He survived special forces. Survived war zones. He has to survive this.
He has to.
Because if—when—I get out of this, I’m going to need him to help me understand why my brother let these men take me.
The SUV turns onto gravel, and the change in surface sends vibrations through the metal floor.
We’re nearing our destination.
Trees press closer, blocking the moonlight and erasing any reference points that might help me track our location.
“Almost there.” The driver’s voice carries no emotion. He’s not speaking to whoever is in the van. He’s talking to someone through the earpiece tucked into his ear.
The clinical detachment in their voices terrifies me more than anger would. These men see us as objects—things to be moved, stored, and used as needed.
I glance at Malikai again, studying his defeated posture. My brilliant, confident brother has been reduced to this trembling shell. What have they done to him? What are they going to do to me?
The SUV slows, gravel crunching under the tires. Metal groans—a gate opening. We pass through, and I count the seconds until it clangs shut behind us.
“Staging point reached,” the passenger suit reports into his earpiece as we emerge into a massive clearing. Floodlights pierce the darkness, illuminating a temporary military staging area.
The distinctive whump-whump-whump of helicopter blades splits the night.
My heart stops as a helicopter descends onto a lit landing pad, its rotors throwing grass and debris in violent circles. This isn’t just a pickup point. This is the first leg of something much worse.
“No.” The word comes out broken as I understand. “Please?—”
“Move.” They drag me from the SUV, efficient and impersonal.
The rotor wash whips my hair, stinging my eyes as they force us toward the waiting helicopter. Malikai stumbles ahead of me, his shoulders hunched in defeat.
He knows where we’re going.
Has known all along.
The flight is mercifully short—twenty minutes that feel like forever, trapped in the thundering cabin with men who won’t even look at me.
Through the window, I watch civilization slowly return: distant lights, roads, and then, finally, the bright sprawl of a commercial airport.
But they don’t take us to the main terminal. The helicopter touches down near a private hangar, where a sleek, white jet waits. Its engines are already spooling up. The plane gleams under the floodlights, with no markings or registration numbers visible.
“Final transport ready,” one suit reports as they hustle us across the tarmac. The jet’s stairs descend with expensive precision, leading to a cabin that steals my breath despite everything—honey-colored wood panels, cream leather, and soft lighting that probably costs more than my car.
But all this luxury makes it worse. Like putting a pretty frame around a nightmare.
“First leg is seven hours to Honolulu,” a suit informs us as they secure us in the leather seats. “Fuel stop, then another eight to our destination.”
Fifteen hours. They’re taking us across the Pacific. Thousands of miles from where Walt lies bleeding on that parking lot pavement. The distance hits me like a physical blow.
Malikai sits across the table from me, but he might as well be on another planet. He stares out the oval window as we taxi, his lips moving in silent equations.
Trying to calculate a way out of this?
Or just retreating into the numbers where none of this is real?
The jet lifts off smoothly, banking west into darkness. Walt’s blood has dried on my dress, stiff and brown now. How long ago did they shoot him? Two hours? Three? The night stretches endless around us as we climb higher, each minute carrying us farther from any hope of rescue.
I close my eyes but can’t stop seeing him fall. Can’t stop hearing his voice calling my name as they dragged me away. Even if he survives—please God, let him survive—how will he ever find me on the other side of an ocean?
The suit beside me offers a cashmere blanket, the gesture almost kind if not for the gun visible under his jacket. “Long flight ahead. You should try to sleep.”
Sleep. Right. As if I could sleep in this beautiful prison, watching the black ocean slip beneath us while my brother pretends I don’t exist. The cabin lights dim to a soft amber glow, making the wood paneling gleam. A flight attendant appears—because, of course, they have a flight attendant—offering drinks in crystal glasses.
I refuse everything, staying rigid in my seat as we chase the darkness west. Seven hours to Hawaii. Another eight beyond that. Each mile takes me farther from Walt.