CHAPTER 25
MARGARITA
I am violently shoved into the cargo hold of the unmarked van, my body hitting the corrugated metal floor with a sickening fucking thud that knocks the oxygen straight out of my lungs.
The heavy rear doors slam shut behind me, the steel bolt sliding into place with the loud, airless finality of a coffin lid.
The transition is completely unhinged. One second I was out there in the screaming wind and the torrential rain of the shipyard, choking on the smell of gunpowder, and the next, I’m sealed inside this absolute, pitch-black silence.
The sensory deprivation is an instant, suffocating weight.
My heart is hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs, beating so hard it actually hurts, but I can’t even see my own fucking hands in front of my face.
I kick out blindly in the dark, my heavy combat boot striking the interior wheel well.
The hollow, metallic ring echoes obnoxiously in the small space.
"Drive. Now," a muffled voice barks from the front cab.
"Is the cargo secure?" a second guy asks, his tone deadass bored like I’m a box of stolen stereos and not a kidnapped surgeon.
The engine roars to life, a deep diesel vibration that travels through the metal floorboards and buzzes directly into my spine.
The van lurches forward aggressively. I slide hard across the slick floor, my zip-tied wrists catching violently on a jagged metal floor latch.
It slices right through the top layer of my skin, drawing hot, immediate blood.
I press my cheek flat against the freezing cold metal floor, using the friction of my face against the steel just to find a stable position while the van navigates the uneven, pothole-riddled terrain of the shipyard.
The physical movement of the vehicle makes me nauseous, but I let the sharp, stinging pain in my wrists ground me.
Every meter this van travels is a meter further away from Damon’s absolute, terrifying protection, and I refuse to spiral into a panic attack over it.
"Watch the bumps, we don't want her dead yet," the driver grunts.
As my eyes finally start to adjust to the gloom, I take in the sterile perfection of this fucking cage.
It’s an extraction vehicle. High-end. Corporate efficiency.
There are no discarded wrenches or random pieces of scrap metal I can use to slice these ties.
It’s infuriatingly clean, completely devoid of trash.
The air smells like high-grade plastic and harsh industrial cleaning agents, illuminated only by the faint, icy blue glow of the dashboard lights bleeding through the partition grill.
I run my tongue over my teeth, checking for any loose molars after getting knocked around on the deck.
I hate this pristine environment. Damon was pure grime, blood, and territorial truth.
This van is just a sanitized lie built by men who wear expensive suits to hide the fact that they're total cowards.
"Quiet back there," the passenger snaps, hitting the metal grate.
Up in the cab, a radio crackles to life. I strain my neck to listen. "Just got eyes on Locke," a static-laced voice reports. "He's done for. Let the rain have him."
I flinch, a hard, involuntary spasm. My surgeon’s brain instantly hijacks my imagination, aggressively rendering the scene I just left behind.
I know exactly where he is. I can see him face down on that rusted metal deck, the pouring rain freezing his skin, washing the surface blood away only to have it replaced by the fresh arterial flow pumping from his bullet wound.
He’s a mountain of meat and broken bone right now, his breathing shallow, rattling in his throat.
My own fingers twitch in sympathy, my nails scraping against a small rivet in the van's floor, imagining him clawing at the iron.
The phantom taste of salt and copper floods my mouth.
I force myself into a clinical audit. Freak out later, assess the damage now.
My ribs are throbbing with a dull, expansive ache—definitely bruised, not broken.
The plastic ties around my wrists are biting deep, severely restricting my circulation.
I force my lungs to expand, breathing slowly, deliberately oxygenating my blood for whatever violent shitshow is waiting for me at the end of this ride.
I wiggle my fingers, checking capillary refill.
The plastic digs deeper with the motion, but the blood returns.
Good. Pulse is 110. Respirations 24. I am alive.
I am still a functioning biological system.
"Stay still, doc. Don't make this harder," the passenger warns, catching my movement in the rearview mirror.
A memory from the shipyard fight flashes violently behind my eyelids.
The highly specific, tactile 'pop' of that mercenary's carotid artery giving way under the serrated edge of my blade.
A sickening jolt of electricity shoots right down my spine.
The phantom heat of that guy's blood is still permanently baked into my hands. Over the roar of the tires hitting wet asphalt, I realize I’m not just a doctor anymore.
I didn't even hesitate out there. I dragged a knife through a man's neck, and Damon would have been proud of my form.
That thought is the most unhinged, terrifying part of this whole nightmare.
I clench my hands into fists behind my back, feeling the dried, crusty blood on my knuckles crack open like old parchment.
"You're a feisty one, aren't you?" the driver chuckles, a greasy, ugly sound.
I automatically try to reach for the familiar, grounding weight of my trauma bag.
My sutures, my combat gauze, my heavy trauma shears.
But there’s nothing there. The realization drops my stomach into my fucking shoes.
It’s still sitting on the rain-slicked floor of the freighter, right next to the serrated knife Damon handed me.
I am totally unarmed and stripped of all my resources.
I frantically search the floor around me with my bound hands, desperately hoping to find a loose screw, a rogue staple, anything.
My fingers just slide uselessly over smooth, indifferent plastic.
The van shifts gears, a heavy vibration rattling my teeth, and cold air from the AC vents begins to circulate in the back, chilling the fear-sweat pooling on the back of my neck.
"Forget the bag," the passenger says, watching me scramble. "You won't be needing it where you're going."
A massive, jagged sob suddenly hitches in my chest, a hot, desperate thing that threatens to break my entire facade.
I swallow it down violently, my throat tight and burning like I just swallowed battery acid.
I absolutely refuse to give Cole’s discount thugs the satisfaction of watching me break.
I set my jaw so hard my back teeth actually ache.
A single, hot tear tracks down my temple, mixing with the salt of my own sweat.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I taste fresh blood, using the sharp, localized pain to short-circuit my emotions.
Cry later. If I cry now, I am deadass useless.
I have to be iron. I have to be concrete.
"No use crying, darling," the driver mocks over his shoulder.
I spit a mouthful of my own blood onto the pristine floorboards just to spite him.
In my head, the feed of Damon's current reality refuses to shut off.
I know his eyes are snapping open right now, bloodshot and completely feral.
The pain in his shattered leg has to be a white-hot scream burning straight through the haze of his concussion.
His body is biologically commanding him to go into shock and die, but his possessive, obsessive drive won't let him.
I can literally hear his internal monologue in my own skull, gritting out, "Not... yet..."
I start testing the zip-ties with a calculated, surgical rhythm.
I pull my wrists apart in short bursts, testing the tensile strength of the heavy-duty plastic, then try to rotate my thumbs inward to see if I can dislocate the joint enough to slip a hand through.
I scoot backward, using the sharp corner of the metal wheel well to provide leverage, pushing my bound hands against it with steady, continuous pressure.
I’m looking for the structural flaw in the locking mechanism.
Everything made by man has a breaking point. I just have to find the stress line.
"Stop moving back there!" the passenger yells, slapping the grate again.
The plastic bites deep into my flesh, slicing cleanly through the first few layers of epidermis.
I don't flinch. I welcome the sting. It’s a hyper-focused distraction from the crushing, claustrophobic weight of being totally isolated.
I continue to push, my breath coming in short, sharp hisses through my teeth.
The high-pitched creak of the plastic stretching sounds deafening over the steady, indifferent clicking of the van's blinker.
I lean my entire body weight into the ties, my knuckles turning stark white as I try to force the internal teeth of the lock to pop.
The warm trickle of my own blood runs down my palms, slicking my skin.
Skin grows back. Bone knits. Time is the only fucking resource I can't regenerate.
"She's trying to break 'em. Clever bitch," the driver notes, not even bothering to slow down.