Chapter 20 Lark
Lark
Location: In Transit — Inside the Van
Time: Same
The drug is wearing off.
Good.
That tells me they dosed me lightly.
Which means they were in a hurry.
Which means they’re not as in control as they want me to believe.
My wrists throb—pins and needles starting to creep back in.
Zip ties.
Tight enough to hurt.
Not tight enough to stop me.
I catalog everything.
Engine pitch—steady, not city stop-and-go anymore.
Road texture—rougher now. Industrial.
Turns—left, long… right, short…
Then—
A sharp jolt.
Metal against metal.
Rail crossing.
Or broken pavement.
Either way—
We’re not heading somewhere quiet.
We’re heading somewhere useful.
Infrastructure.
The man in the passenger seat shifts.
“She’s waking,” he says.
“Good,” the driver replies. “He’ll want her aware.”
He.
My mind locks onto it instantly.
Not freelancers.
Not independent.
They’re delivery.
Which means someone else is waiting.
Someone who thinks I’m the key.
I shift—just enough to make it obvious.
The passenger turns, watching me.
Smiling.
Always smiling.
“Comfortable?” he asks.
His tone is almost polite.
That’s worse than cruelty.
“No,” I say evenly. “But I’ve been worse.”
That throws him.
I see it.
Just a flicker—but it’s there.
Good.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks.
“Yes.”
I hold his gaze.
“You’re afraid of something you don’t understand.”
He laughs—but it’s thinner now.
“You’re not as important as you think.”
I tilt my head slightly.
Study him.
Measure.
Then—
“That’s not what your boss thinks.”
Silence.
There it is.
A crack.
His jaw tightens just a fraction.
Not enough for most people to notice.
Enough for me.
I lean back, letting my head rest against the metal wall.
Close my eyes.
Because now I know something important.
They’re not in control of this.
They’re following it.
And that means there are edges.
There are always edges.
My fingers tingle harder now—pain returning, sharp and electric.
Circulation coming back.
Almost usable.
Almost free.
They think they took a woman.
They didn’t.
They took a process.
And processes don’t panic.
They adapt.
Aaron
“Ronan,” I say, voice low over the roar of the engine, “they’re not going to a safehouse.”
“I know,” he replies instantly. “They’re heading for a node.”
“Define.”
“A place where something moves,” he says. “Data. Power. Control.”
My mind snaps through possibilities.
Freight yards.
Substations.
Old relay hubs.
Places built to connect things.
Or break them.
“They want to plug her in,” I say.
“Yes.”
Cold anger settles in my chest.
Not explosive.
Not loud.
Focused.
“They’re not hiding her,” I growl. “They’re going to use her.”
“Which means they’ll stop soon,” Ronan says.
“Good.”
My grip tightens on the throttle.
I push harder.
Faster.
Let the bike scream.
Let the city blur.
Because every second matters now.
Every second—
She’s closer to them.
Lark
The van slows.
Not stopping.
Adjusting.
We turn.
The sound changes immediately.
Echo.
Enclosed.
Concrete.
We’re inside something.
Warehouse.
Yard.
Large.
Open.
I keep my breathing even.
Calm.
They open the back doors.
Cold air rushes in—sharp, metallic.
Voices in the distance.
More than two.
Good.
More variables.
Hands grab me.
Firm.
Controlled.
Not careless.
Not kind.
They lift me out.
My legs don’t fully cooperate when they set me down.
I let them buckle.
Let them see weakness.
Let them believe it.
One of them tightens his grip on my arm.
Too confident.
I almost smile.
Inside—
The tingling in my fingers sharpens.
Pain.
Strength.
Return.
Almost there.
Almost.