Chapter Twelve
Ember
Max stops in front of a high-tech gate, manned by armed guards on either side.
That’s the first tip that whatever home is to him, it’s not a normal place.
For a moment, I think it’s a government blacksite, but no.
No, he wouldn’t be bringing me in like this—over his shoulder—if it were. I’d be facing a much different reality.
I don’t bother shouting or screaming when the gate soundlessly opens, or when Max continues carrying me down a paved road, heedless of my weight or his injuries. His movements are fluid, confident, and far calmer than I expect.
On either side of us are fields of grass wilting beneath the frost. When Max turns to survey his surroundings, I catch a brief glimpse of a cluster of buildings up ahead.
Abruptly, Max sets me on my feet. Immediately, my fight instincts kick in, but he’s expecting my hits.
He catches both my wrists in his hands, fists my hair, and bares his teeth at me.
“Bad move,” he hisses. “I’m already pissed.
Don’t piss me off any more today, Ember.
It will not end well for you.” His jaw tightens.
“We’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. Do you know where we are? ”
I shake my head as much as his grip allows.
“You ever hear of the Nighthawks?” he questions.
My blood runs cold, and a swarm of angry wasps detonate in my chest.
Yes, I’ve heard of the Nighthawks; everyone has. I thought they were a myth for several years, until Dagon sent me to kill one of them.
It was the hardest mission I’ve ever been sent on. I nearly died facing the man, and I nearly died again making my way back to Dagon, suffering from countless injuries.
“From your expression, I’ll assume that’s a yes,” Max says with a nod. “Do you know who I am?”
I have an idea.
“A Nighthawk,” I whisper. A man in one of the most renowned assassin organizations in the world—an organization known for being secretive, reclusive, and insanely successful.
Tales have it that Nighthawks have a near-perfect operation rate.
They contract with millionaires, billionaires, mob bosses, all sorts of criminals…
if Dagon didn’t have his own private army, and me as his personal assassin, I expect he’d have utilized their services once or twice.
“Yup. Any idea what this place is?”
I swallow, considering the armed guards, electric fence, buildings in the distance… “Base of operations.” I’ve heard rumors that the Nighthawks have a base where all their operatives live. I didn’t know it was true until this moment.
“Correct. Now, I am going to tie your wrists, and you are going to walk beside me like a good girl.” Preemptively, he winds a strip of rope around my wrists, securing them behind my back, easily overpowering my protests and ignoring my scream of anger.
“If you flail around or try to make a scene, I will spank you in front of whoever happens to stumble across us, and I won’t stop until I’m drawing blood. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” I whisper, even as my gaze darts toward the fence.
“Don’t bother running. It won’t work. Keep your mouth shut and for once, follow my fucking instructions without beating me with a shower rod or crashing my car. I am your only point of safety here.” The small smirk that steals across his lips tells me just how happy this makes him.
He wraps his fingers around the back of my neck and starts steering me forward. He doesn’t seem to care that I’m just wearing socks anymore—I really have pissed him off.
He steers me carefully, and every step forward feels like a step closer to my demise, as if I’m walking to the gallows.
The indistinguishable blurs of buildings in the distance quickly take the shape of three buildings, broken up by stone pathways. There are also several buildings a bit farther away that are in the midst of construction, though I’m not entirely sure what they’re meant to be.
“That’s the annex,” Max says, pointing at a building made up of reinforced grey concrete, with a metal front door and only thin slits serving as windows.
I notice security cameras perched all around it, and even more hanging on every lamp post. This entire place is heavily monitored.
“It’s for prisoners,” Max explains. “If things go well, that’s where Dagon will spend a few years being my torture-toy. ”
I only credit that statement with a snort. Many people have tried to kill Dagon or take him hostage—I killed several of them, and all the others also met their untimely demise.
“That’s the training facility.” Max nods at another building.
This one has stretches of grass littered with equipment around it, thick glass, and more concrete walls.
“And up front is Headquarters.” I move my gaze to a six-story behemoth of a building.
“All the Nighthawks live there. My—our—apartment is on the fifth floor.”
“You’re deluding yourself if you think I won’t find a way to kill you and escape.”
Max chuckles. “You’re adorable.”
A group of men stumble out of the annex, talking boisterously amongst each other and laughing. It’s such an oddly normal scene for a world-renowned secret society. They stop as soon as they glimpse me and Max, and one by one, their postures straighten and they stand at attention.
“Sir,” one of them steps forward. His eyes flick to me, look up and down, and—
“If you don’t remove your eyes from my chosen, I’ll gouge them out of your skull.” Max’s tone has shifted from the playful, relatively soft one he uses with me to one that’s steeped with dominance and thick with authority. Whoever he is, he’s significant here.
“Of course. I didn’t mean any offense—”
“Put out the word,” Max clips. “I’ve found my Chosen. Anyone who looks at her for a beat too long will lose precious body parts.”
My jaw clenches. I whirl my head to face him, feeling my cheeks heat with fury. “I’m not—”
“Stop talking,” he growls.
The temper I managed to hold in check here snaps.
I shift my stance and awkwardly throw an elbow right into his side—over the bruise I left when I went at him with a shower rod last night.
Max grunts in pain, but he doesn’t budge, doesn’t flinch, and before I can make another move, his hand’s back to fisting my hair.
I need to cut it off. The length makes it entirely too easy for him to use against me.
“Bad choice, yet again,” he says, though his tone has noticeably lightened from the one he used with the others. “I’m going to have my work cut out for me with you.”
“You fucking—”
My words cut off when he yanks me to him and draws a strip of fabric out of his pocket.
I know where he’s going with it before he makes his move—he yanks me into his chest, spinning me around.
I try to smash my foot down on his boot, but he anticipates my move and kicks my legs out from under me, sending my knees crashing to the hard ground.
A few mumbles sound from the men in front of the annex, but Max ignores them—he gives my hair a vicious wrench, snapping my head back, and fastens the fabric around my head before I can fight him off.
“Take it off, and you won’t sit for a fucking month,” he says cheerfully, using my hair as a handle to force me back to my feet.
I know he’ll make good on his threat. I know I’m trapped, and that continuing to piss him off will only harm me. For now, my best bet is to pipe down, be quiet, be still and compliant, and observe. Get headcounts, assess any space I’m given access to, and gather data before formulating a plan.
It’s a new level of humiliation when Max drags me into the entrance of the headquarters by my hair.
It’s even more shameful when he puts me back down on my knees in front of a group of men who were chatting amongst each other—all of whom then turn to look at me.
I rake a look over their faces, memorizing features, trying to discern any weaknesses.
I have no idea what Max means by chosen, what my purpose here will be, but I don’t intend to be a resident here for long.
If I need to kill every single person in this compound to escape, that’s precisely what I’ll do.
Max pulls his phone out of his pocket, presses it to his ear, and makes a phone call. He shares a clipped exchange with whoever’s on the other end of the line, while more and more people gather in front of me, all gawking like I’m an animal at a zoo exhibition.
An elevator dings not far off, and then two newcomers join the growing crowd. A man, and the first woman I’ve seen here.
The man is tall, built like a tank, and objectively attractive. He also has tattoos up and down his arms. That’s not what really grabs my attention—it’s the woman next to him that catches my gaze.
She has fiery red hair, stunning green eyes, and is, objectively, very pretty. Delicate features, milky skin, long legs, fairly short stature.
The Nighthawks are said to be an all-male organization, no exceptions.
Outside, Max said something about a chosen.
There have been rumors recently swirling in the seedy underbelly of the assassin world—that the old leader of the Nighthawks was overtaken by his right-hand man, who became the new leader.
And that the new leader was looking at reinstating an archaic tradition of keeping captive women for his operatives.
Fuck, no.
The woman staring at me with wide eyes doesn’t look abused—no visible bruises on her face, neck, and shirt, but the man beside her curls a hand over her wrist. She gently moves his hold to her hand, twining her fingers with his.
Is she a chosen? Has she been Stockholm syndromed?
Or is what I heard utter bullshit?
“What the fuck?” the man beside her snaps.