Chapter 28 Rylie
Rylie
The night felt ordinary.
That should have been my first warning—but ordinary had finally stopped feeling suspicious. The tavern was closed, the Rangers scattered upstairs or out on late patrols, and Trigger had stepped out ten minutes ago to help Wolf check a delivery truck that had come in after hours.
Ten minutes.
I stood at the sink, rinsing a mug, humming softly without realizing it.
That’s when the lights went out.
Not a flicker.
A clean cut.
The hum of the refrigerator died. The room plunged into darkness so complete it stole the air from my lungs.
“Trigger?” I called.
No answer.
My pulse picked up—but I didn’t panic. Power outages happened. Storms knocked lines down. I reached for the flashlight kept in the drawer beside the stove.
The back door opened.
I froze.
Footsteps crossed the threshold—slow, deliberate, completely unconcerned with being heard.
“This isn’t funny,” I said, forcing my voice steady.
A light snapped on.
Not overhead.
A narrow beam—too bright, too focused—cut across my face, blinding me for half a second.
Then hands grabbed me.
One clamped over my mouth. Another locked around my arms, pinning them to my sides before I could scream. My feet barely left the floor as I was hauled backward, my mug shattering somewhere behind me.
I bit down hard.
The man grunted but didn’t loosen his grip.
“Easy,” a voice murmured near my ear. Calm. Detached. “We don’t want to hurt you.”
Liar.
Something sharp pressed into my ribs—not stabbing, just enough pressure to promise it could be.
“Don’t fight,” another voice said quietly. “This will go much smoother if you don’t fight.”
I went still.
Not because I believed them.
Because I remembered Trigger’s voice in my head.
Survive first.
My heart hammered as they moved fast, dragging me out the back door into the cold night air. A van waited—engine running, door already open.
No hesitation.
No shouting.
This wasn’t a snatch-and-grab.
This was planned.
I was shoved inside, forced down onto the floor as the door slammed shut. The engine revved, tires biting gravel as we pulled away.
A hood dropped over my head.
Darkness swallowed me whole.
I counted breaths.
One.
Two.
Three.
Trigger will notice.
He always noticed.
The van turned sharply. Then again. I let my body go loose, absorbing the movement, listening—memorizing.
Time stretched, warped. I lost track of how long we had been driving. When the van finally stopped, strong hands hauled me out again.
Cool air. Different. Damp.
I was guided—not roughly, but firmly—up steps, through a door, and into silence so thick it rang.
The hood came off.
I blinked against the harsh fluorescent light.
The room was bare. Concrete floor. No windows. One chair bolted to the ground.
A man stood in front of me—clean, well-dressed, not one of the men who’d grabbed me.
He smiled.
“Rylie Tate,” he said pleasantly. “You’ve caused us a great deal of inconvenience.”
My stomach dropped.
Cartel.
“Where’s Trigger?” I demanded.
The man chuckled softly. “Oh, he’s very motivated right now.”
Cold dread slid through me.
“That’s good,” he continued. “Because we’re going to need his full attention.”
He nodded once.
Hands pushed me down into the chair. Restraints snapped closed around my wrists—not tight enough to cut off circulation. Tight enough to remind me they were in control.
For now.
As the door closed and footsteps retreated, one thought burned through the fear, sharp and unyielding:
Trigger will come.
And whoever took me…
Had no idea what they’d just started.