Chapter 25
LEVI
The thing I needed to do was buy flowers.
Why? Because I'd never bought anyone flowers before, and I figured what better time than now.
"Meet me back in your room," I told Amelia. "I'll be right back."
She looked at me, curious but trusting, and nodded.
I watched her go, yearning hitting me square in the chest. I wanted to follow her upstairs. Strip her down to bare skin. Lose myself in her until the rest of the world stopped mattering.
But I'd seen flower vendors a couple blocks away on my way here. So, I went.
I wasn't halfway there when a car t-boned another at the intersection ahead. The screech of metal on metal. The crunch of impact. Glass shattering across the pavement.
Time slowed.
Everyone on the sidewalk stopped, heads turning, phones coming out. A woman gasped. A man ran toward the wreck, yelling something about calling 9-1-1.
But I wasn't looking at the accident. I was looking at the two vehicles that pulled up right after—a van and an SUV, positioning themselves like they were helping.
Only they weren't.
The back doors of the van swung open, and two men stepped out. Both big. Both holding guns low, just out of sight from the crowd. Their eyes locked on me.
"Levi Dane," one of them said, voice calm. "Get in the van."
I stopped walking.
Charleston citizens were flooding the street now, trying to help the people in the crashed cars. The chaos gave the gunmen cover. Nobody was looking at us.
"Who the fuck are you?" I asked, keeping my voice low.
"Doesn't matter," the second man said. "You either get in the van, or your journalist gets paid a visit. Your choice."
My blood went cold.
Amelia.
I could take these two down. Probably. Disarm one, use him as a shield, put the other on the ground before backup arrived.
But that was a risk. And I wouldn't put her in danger. Not for anything.
"Fine," I said.
I walked toward the van.
The first man grabbed my arm and yanked me inside. The second followed, slamming the doors shut behind us. Before I could react, they zip-tied my hands behind my back, tight enough to bite into my wrists. The van started moving.
"What do you want?" I asked.
They didn't answer.
Just sat there, relaxed. Confident. Like they'd done this a hundred times before.
Well, fuck them. Even with my hands tied behind my back, I was deadly.
I shifted on the bench, pretending to adjust myself, getting my feet under me. Then I kicked. Hard.
My boot caught the first guy square in the chest. He slammed back against the van wall, gasping. The second guy lunged at me, but I twisted and drove my shoulder into him, sending him sprawling.
Then I used my head. Literally. I crashed my forehead into the first guy's nose. Bone crunched. Blood sprayed. He dropped like a stone.
The second guy tried to get up, and I headbutted him, too. Once. Twice. Three times. His nose split open. Blood covered my face, warm and sticky.
I didn't stop until they stopped moving.
I was breathing hard, adrenaline screaming through my veins. I had to move fast.
I tried the door, but with my hands tied behind my back, I couldn't quite reach the handle.
Fuck.
I turned back to the bodies, crouching down and searching them with my hands behind my back, feeling for anything sharp.
All thoughts were on Amelia.
If these assholes knew about her, who else did? Was she safe at the hotel? Did I need to call her? Warn her?
My fingers found a knife in one guy's pocket. I flicked it open carefully, positioning the blade between my hands. The van took a sharp turn, and I almost sliced my wrist open as I was jostled to one side.
That was close.
I steadied myself and started sawing through the zip tie. Slowly. Methodically.
The van rocked as it moved, making it harder to keep the blade steady. At least there was no window where the driver could see me working. The plastic bit into my wrists as I sawed. Blood trickled down my hands—mine or theirs, I couldn't tell.
Then I felt it—the satisfying click of the knife finally cutting through one side.
That's all I needed.
I twisted my wrists, pulling them apart, and—
The van cut sharply, then stopped.
Fuck.
I grabbed both guns from the bodies, pocketing one, holding the other ready.
My free hand searched under the dead weight of my captors, looking for extra magazines. Found two. Pocketed those, too.
I heard footsteps outside. Multiple sets.
I moved to one side of the door, weapon raised. The door swung open. I put two shots into the man's face before he could react. He dropped.
I bounded out of the van, landing in the middle of some tucked-away corner of Charleston. Small parking lot. Brick walls on three sides. No through street.
I was just trying to get my bearings when a woman's voice cut through the air.
"Put the gun down, Mr. Dane, or you will die."
I froze.
The voice came from my right. Higher. A window on the second floor of one of the buildings.
I couldn't see her face, just a silhouette. Then I saw them. Men. Armed. At least eight of them, positioned around the parking lot, all pointing weapons at me.
I was standing in the middle, an easy target.
Slowly, I crouched and put the pistol on the ground.
"The other one, too," the woman said. "The one in your pocket."
I pulled it out, set it down, and kicked it away.
The armed men moved in fast. They zip-tied my hands again—tighter this time. Added a blindfold. Then a rope around my neck, just in case I needed reminding who was in control.
My world went dark.
They led me somewhere inside. Down stairs. Underground. The air grew cooler. Damp. It smelled like mold and concrete and something else—something old and stale.
A dungeon.
Fuck.
What had I gotten into now?
They shoved me into a chair and tied me to it. Hands. Feet. Chest.
I couldn't move. Couldn't see. I listened.
Footsteps. Murmured voices. The creak of a door opening and closing.
Then silence.
I don't know how long I sat there. Could've been minutes. Could've been an hour.
Time had a way of stretching when you couldn't see or move.
Finally, I heard footsteps again. Closer this time. A door opened. Hinges groaned. Someone walked into the room.
"Mr. Dane," the woman's voice said. The same one from the window. "I apologize for the rough treatment. But you did kill three of my men."
I didn't respond.
She moved closer. I could hear the soft click of her shoes on the concrete floor.
"Do you know who I am?" she asked.
"No," I said. "But I'm guessing you're about to tell me."
A soft laugh. "You're right. I am."
She paused, like she was savoring the moment.
"My name is irrelevant," she said. "But the organization I represent is not. You may have heard of us."
My blood went cold. “The Vanguard.”
"Ah," she said, clearly pleased. "You have. Your father does have a naughty mouth."
"What do you want?" I asked.
"What we've always wanted," she said. "Control. Order. The ability to shape the world in ways that benefit those who understand how power truly works. Keep everything in its place."
"And what does that have to do with me?"
She moved closer. I could feel her presence now, standing just in front of me.
"Your father," she said, "was one of ours. For a time. He did good work. Important work. But then he decided he knew better. Decided to go his own way. Build his own little empire."
"Dominion Hall," I said.
"Precisely. And we allowed it. For a time. Because it served our purposes. But things have changed, Mr. Dane. Your father has become ... inconvenient. And his sons—well, they're becoming a problem, too."
"So what?" I said. "You're going to kill us?"
Another soft laugh. "Kill you? No. That would be wasteful. We're going to use you."
"Good luck with that."
"Oh, I don't need luck," she said. "I have leverage."
My stomach twisted.
"Amelia Emerson," she said. "Your journalist. She's quite talented. And quite vulnerable."
Rage exploded through me. "You touch her—"
"We won't," she said calmly. "As long as you cooperate."
I strained against the ropes, but they held.
"What do you want?" I ground out.
"Simple," she said. "You're going to go back to Dominion Hall. You're going to tell your father that The Vanguard is willing to negotiate. That we want a meeting. A truce, if you will."
"And if I don't?"
"Then Ms. Emerson dies," she said simply. "Along with everyone else you care about. Your brothers. Their women. All of them. We have eyes everywhere, Mr. Dane. We've been watching you for a very long time."
The room went silent.
I sat there, breathing hard, blood pounding in my ears.
"Do we have an understanding?" she asked.
I didn't answer.
"Good," she said, like my silence was agreement. "You'll be released shortly. And Mr. Dane?"
She leaned in close. I could smell her perfume—something floral and expensive.
"Don't do anything stupid," she whispered. "We're always watching."
Then she was gone.
Footsteps receded. The door closed.
And I was alone again in the dark.
They let me go an hour later. Cut the ropes. Removed the blindfold. Shoved me out a side door into an alley I didn't recognize. No guns. No phone. Just me and the blood still drying on my face.
I stumbled into the street, trying to get my bearings.
Charleston. Still Charleston.
I didn't know where I was, but I knew where I needed to be.
Amelia.
I had to get back to Amelia.
I started running.