Forty-Eight
Elias
You’re Going Down – SICK PUPPIES
I keep my eyes trained on the road, hands steady at the wheel of the Porsche.
I press the gas pedal a little harder and weave through the heavy Bridgeport traffic.
Red brake lights stretch endlessly ahead of me, like a river of glowing frustration snaking through the city.
I press the gas a little harder, sliding between two cars before the lane closes again.
I hated leaving her. The feeling sat low and heavy in my stomach as I pulled out of my driveway earlier and hasn’t settled since. Business called at Headstone, and that’s the last place Kat needs to be right now. Not with too many variables in play.
Although the timing couldn’t have been fucking worse.
The police had shown up at midday as soon as the place opened for cleaning.
They had full uniforms, warrants, the whole fucking circus.
Flashing lights outside the front like a fucking parade.
They claimed they’d received a tip about illegal substances on the premises.
Of course, they couldn’t find a damn thing.
Not in my fucking bar. But that didn’t stop them from tearing through the place, anyway.
Still, I couldn’t leave it to my men alone, I had to go.
Appearances matter. Presence matters. If people see the boss standing calm in the middle of chaos, they stop worrying.
When I arrived, the detective in charge was one on my payroll.
Luckily. I really didn’t need to be dealing with bureaucratic bullshit today.
Jerry pulled me aside, his voice full of apology, said he knew it was bullshit, he’d known before he walked into the place they wouldn’t find a damn thing.
Not a single crystal. But a tip is a tip, and paperwork needed boxes ticking.
The whole thing lasted an hour and a half before they packed up and left my cleaning crew to clean up their mess.
Raids aren’t uncommon for Headstone, but the timing felt off.
And then there’s Owen.
Silent for days. No sightings. No word. No movement. Nothing. It’s like he’s vanished, disappeared into thin fucking air.
My jaw tightens as the traffic finally thins and the road opens up ahead of me.
My phone vibrates against the center console.
I don’t look at it—whoever it is can wait.
I just need to get home to her. The Porsche glides through the security gate as it opens, the iron bars sliding smoothly apart.
The houses here sit far back from the road, hidden behind trees and stone walls, providing the ultimate privacy in this suburban hell.
I turn into the driveway, gravel crunching beneath my tires as the house comes into view.
The last of the daylight drains from the sky, settling low on the horizon.
The place lights up automatically as I approach.
I ease the car into the garage and cut the engine.
A familiar unease crawls up my spine. I brush it off—it’s just the result from a day spent at Headstone.
Still, my hand stays close to the pistol in my jacket as I get out of the car.
The front door unlocks at my touch, and I step inside. It’s quiet. Fucking silent, actually. I stay still for a moment, listening for the shower running or her feet walking along the floorboards upstairs.
“Kat?” I call out.
Nothing.
I slowly shut the door behind me as unease crawls up my spine. I scan the room. Everything is exactly as it should be. There’s a faint coffee smell in the air. Must be left over from when the band were here earlier.
“Kat?” I call again, louder this time.
No answer.
My jaw tightens, and a thread of tension winds tighter in my gut. Something’s not right, she always answers.
“Kat!”
I run up the stairs, taking them two at a time, my feet barely touching the steps as my heartbeat hammers in my chest. The bedroom door is open, and the light is on.
I push the door open, cautious hope rising as the room comes into view.
It quickly disappears when I see Freddie curled up in the center of the bed, his chest rising and falling with sleep.
Panic ices through my veins. He wouldn’t sleep through noise.
Kat would never leave him alone like this. Never.
Unless something forced her to.
“Kat?” I call again, louder and sharper.
My eyes sweep over the room. Everything is just as I left it. Nothing is out of place. Nothing wrong. And that’s exactly why my blood turns to ice in my veins.
I’m already running back downstairs before my thoughts catch up, pulse hammering through my ears as I reach the kitchen. I see it immediately.
Her phone.
Sitting on the island, face down. Exactly how she would have left it if she were in the middle of something.
My world tilts on its axis, and I freeze.
She never goes anywhere without it. Never.
It’s her lifeline. I slowly cross the kitchen and pick it up, the screen lighting at my touch.
No missed calls. Nothing. Just her lock screen photo of Freddie sprawled across her lap.
The image vanishes quickly as the screen dims again.
My gaze flicks around the large room, settling on one thing. The cameras.
I sprint to my office, slamming the door against the wall as I stride inside.
The ice in my thaws, replace by red hot rage that courses through my body as my computer boots up.
I open up the camera log. I impatiently tap my index finger on the desk as the software buffers. Everything is too fucking slow.
The footage appears, and I skip through the day. Kat in the kitchen this morning, making coffee with Freddie at her feet. Her friends arriving. They sit in the living room for hours and nothing happens. They leave, she hugs them goodbye, and then—
Static.
“Fuck,” the word rips from my throat as my heart slams violently against my ribs.
This was deliberate. Someone planned this.
The image returns, and the porch is empty. The front door is closed. But Kat isn’t there.
Something in me fractures. My heart beats out of my chest, and I feel it almost splinter in two. I pull out my phone from my pocket, shaking as I dial Cain.
“Boss—”
“Get here. Now,” I say, my voice cracking. “Bring Gareth. Bring fucking everyone.”
I hang up before Cain can respond. I drop my phone onto the desk, still gripping Kat’s phone in my other hand. Useless.
Panic tries to creep back in, but I crush it down instantly, my mask slipping back over my face. Panic doesn’t help her. Panic won’t find her. Rage will. And I know exactly who took her.
A line hasn’t been crossed—a match has been struck.
And I’ll burn the fucking world to ashes to find her.