Chapter 13 Sin
THIRTEEN
SIN
I’ve had a lot of bad ideas in my life. Kicking doors in foreign cities on half intel. Trusting people who smiled too easily. Thinking I could outrun what I carry.
This one probably takes the cake.
Rowan sits beside me in the passenger seat of a nondescript sedan we picked up after the plane, her hood up, hair tucked, posture tight.
She’s quiet in that way that tells me her mind is moving faster than her mouth can keep up with.
Anger, hurt, determination, all braided together into a single rope she’s holding onto so she doesn’t unravel.
The newspaper building looms ahead, lights mostly off, the parking lot empty except for a single car near the employee entrance.
I park in the shadow of a tree line, cut the engine, and listen. The world outside is still. No traffic. No voices. Just the faint buzz of a streetlight and the slow hiss of wind through palmettos.
Rowan turns to me. “He’ll be here.”
It’s not a question.
“Maybe,” I say.
“He always stays late when something big is about to run,” she replies. Her voice goes tight. “He always said the truth deserves the extra hours.” I don’t like the way her eyes shine when she says it. Betrayal is a blade that cuts clean and deep.
I check my watch, then the street again. “Remember the rules.”
Rowan nods once. “Line of sight. No heroics. You say move, I move.”
“Good.”
She exhales, then adds, quieter, “I can do this.”
I glance at her. She’s pale under the parking lot glow, but her chin is lifted.
Brave, even when it costs. I’m falling for her.
That’s the part I don’t say out loud. I don’t know what happens after this, if there even is an after.
But right now, the only thing that matters is getting her out alive.
I pull my cap lower, check my waistband, and step out.
Rowan follows, staying close, her movements controlled like she’s been practicing. She has. I made sure of it.
The back door is a metal service entrance. Keypad. Camera above it. I angle Rowan under the camera’s blind spot and move in, fast. I’ve already looped the system earlier. Thirty seconds of dead feed. Not much time.
I punch in the code we lifted from an old maintenance request log. The lock clicks.
Rowan’s eyes widen slightly. “You’re terrifying.”
“Move,” I murmur.
We slip inside and pull the door shut behind us.
The newspaper building at night smells like old ink, stale coffee, and paper dust. The hum of servers and emergency lights makes the halls feel like a sleeping animal. Fluorescent fixtures flicker low, casting everything in pale bands.
Rowan leads silently, but I keep my body angled to cover her, my attention scanning for cameras, doors, anything out of place.
We pass the empty newsroom. Desks with half-drunk mugs.
A bulletin board with deadlines and pinned photos.
A whiteboard scrawled with story ideas. Rowan’s jaw tightens as she sees it, like this is where she belongs and someone tried to rip it away.
I motion her toward the corridor that leads to the executive offices. She nods and stays close, breath shallow. Halfway down the hall, voices drift through a closed door.
Rowan whispers, “That’s Randy’s office.”
I grab her sleeve lightly and pull her back into the shadow of a copy room doorway. She presses against the wall, eyes wide and furious, but she stays quiet.
We listen.
Randy O’Connell’s voice comes through first, strained, too low. “I did what you asked. The profile was installed. I can prove it.”
Another voice answers, smoother, colder. Not local. Not familiar. A man who sounds like he wears expensive cologne and doesn’t mind blood on his shoes. “Proof is not compliance,” the man says. “Proof is leverage.”
Randy swallows audibly. “She doesn’t know. She trusts me.”
A short, humorless laugh. “Of course she does. You’ve built a whole career on being the good guy.”
Rowan’s breath catches. Her hand tightens into a fist so hard her knuckles lighten. I keep my gaze on the door, my body ready.
Randy’s voice cracks. “You promised me this would stay contained. A scare. A message. Not… violence.”
The other man’s tone stays calm. “Violence is a strong word. We applied pressure. Your reporter is stubborn.”
“She’s not just a reporter,” Randy snaps, then reins it in. “She’s… she’s talented. She’s earned her place.”
“And she’s about to burn down a corporation that employs thousands of people,” the man replies. “Do you understand the scale of what she’s poking at? This story dies, Randy. Or you do.”
Silence.
Then Randy says, smaller, “You said you’d erase it.”
“You give us what she has,” the man replies. “All drafts. All notes. All contacts. Then we erase your mistake. You go back to being respected, and she goes back to writing fluff pieces about charity galas.”
Rowan’s eyes flash. She looks like she might lunge. I catch her wrist, firm this time, and shake my head once. “Not yet,” I mouth the words.
Randy’s chair scrapes. “She has backups. She’s paranoid.”
“Good,” the man says. “Paranoia is predictable. It means she hides things close. On-site. In her workspace. Sometimes people keep secrets where they feel safe.”
My stomach tightens. Rowan’s face goes pale. She understands it too.
The man continues, voice almost conversational. “You’ll bring me her access. Her keys. Her passwords. If she resists, you’ll lure her. If she refuses, we take the problem off the board.”
Rowan’s throat works. She whispers, barely audible, “He wouldn’t.”
I keep my voice low. “He already did.”
A new sound cuts through the hall. A soft click. Footsteps. Not from Randy’s office. From behind us. I turn my head slightly, just enough to catch movement at the end of the corridor. Two men in dark jackets, moving with purpose, not lost employees. One of them holds a small case.
They stop when they see the back door light on the far end flicker. Their heads tilt like dogs catching a scent. They’re not here by chance. They’re sweeping.
My pulse spikes. I shift closer to Rowan, keeping my body between her and the hall. I whisper, “We’re leaving. Now.”
Rowan’s eyes lock on Randy’s door. Rage fights with logic.
“Rowan,” I warn.
She swallows hard and nods once.
We move back the way we came, silent and fast. The footsteps behind us pick up pace. We pass the newsroom again, and my skin prickles. Too open. Too many angles.
Rowan stays close, doing exactly what I tell her, and it makes something in my chest twist. She’s being so brave.
Smart. Trusting. We’re almost to the service hall that leads back to the door when Randy’s office door swings open down the corridor.
A shaft of warm light spills into the dark hall.
Randy steps out, shoulders tense, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s trying to scrub off guilt. Behind him, the other man follows.
Now I get a look at him through the glass panels that line the corridor.
Mid-forties. Clean-cut. Tailored suit. Not dressed like someone who should be in a newspaper office at midnight.
His posture is too relaxed, his gaze too sharp.
A man who has never been told no in a way that mattered.
He lifts his head slightly, eyes scanning, as if he senses a shift in the building.
Rowan freezes.
I grip her elbow. “Move.”
She does, but her gaze stays glued to Randy. That second of hesitation costs us. The man’s eyes catch movement near the newsroom. He smiles. Slow. He knows.
Then he raises his voice, calm and clear. “Ms. Sands.”
Rowan stops dead.
I yank her forward. “Don’t.”
But she turns her head, eyes blazing. “You,” she whispers, like it’s a curse.
Randy’s face drains of color. “Rowan… what are you doing here?”
The other man steps forward into the light, hands open in an easy gesture. “This is perfect. Saves us time.”
I move without thinking, pulling Rowan behind me, my body going hard and ready. “Back up,” I say.
The man’s gaze flicks over me, assessing. “And you must be Hawthorne.”
I don’t answer. I step sideways, trying to angle us toward the exit corridor. Behind us, the two men from earlier are closer now, closing the distance in the newsroom walkway.
We’re boxed.
Rowan’s breath comes fast. “Randy, tell him to stop.”
Randy looks wrecked. His eyes flick to the men behind me, then to the man beside him. Fear wins. “I can’t,” he says, voice breaking. “Rowan, I can’t.”
Rowan’s face crumples for half a second. Then fury snaps it back into place. “You did this to me.”
Randy flinches like she slapped him. “They have me. You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” she spits. “You sold me.”
The other man sighs, as if we’re inconveniencing him. “Enough. Bring her.”
One of the men behind us moves first. I pivot and drive an elbow into his throat before he can grab Rowan. He drops, gagging. The second man goes for his belt. He’s got a gun.
I slam into him, shoulder first, knocking him into a desk. A monitor topples. Keys clatter. The noise explodes in the quiet newsroom. Rowan stumbles back, eyes wide, but she doesn’t run the wrong way. She stays behind me, exactly like she was trained.
The corporate man raises a hand. “Easy. We don’t need blood here.”
I don’t stop. I grab the second attacker’s wrist, twist hard, and his gun clatters to the floor. I kick it away.
He swings with his free hand. I duck, and drive a fist into his ribs, and he folds. But then a third presence moves in fast from the side. A man I didn’t see. He’s got a case. He snaps it open and hurls something at the floor. It’s a smoke bomb.
White smoke bursts out with a sharp hiss. My lungs seize as the air turns bitter and chemical.
Rowan coughs, choking. “Sin!”
“Eyes down,” I bark, grabbing her wrist. I pull her hard, aiming for the service hall. But shapes move in the smoke.
There’s too many of them. Someone grabs Rowan from behind. She screams, the sound cutting through me like a blade. I whip around, swinging blind. My fist connects with something solid. A grunt. Then another hand slams into my side. Pain flares. My vision swims. The gas burns.
Rowan’s voice rises again. “Sin!”
I lunge toward her sound and catch her arm. For half a second, I have her. Then a shock hits my neck. Taser. Electric fire rips through my nerves. My body locks. My teeth clench so hard I taste blood. I drop to one knee, still gripping Rowan’s wrist, refusing to let go.
Rowan’s fingers squeeze mine. “Sin, please!”
I force my hand to hold. Another jolt. My muscles seize again. My grip breaks. Rowan’s yanked away into the smoke.
“No,” I rasp, voice shredded. I push up, stumbling, trying to breathe, trying to see. I catch a glimpse through the thinning white.
Rowan’s hair is a dark ribbon as she fights, kicking, clawing at a man’s arm. She’s brave, even now. Then something presses over her mouth. Her eyes meet mine. Wide. Furious. Terrified. And then she’s gone, dragged through the side corridor toward the loading area.
The corporate man’s voice floats through the haze, calm as a banker. “She comes with us. You can keep the building.”
Randy’s voice breaks. “Don’t hurt her!”
A laugh. “That depends on her.”
I stagger forward, vision pulsing, lungs burning. I shove through desks, through smoke, toward the loading door. The back exit bursts open. Cold night air hits my face, sharp and clean. Headlights flare in the lot. A van. The side door’s open. Rowan’s shoved inside.
She twists, fighting, and I see her hand reach out, searching. For me.
I sprint as fast as I can. Pain lances through my ribs with every step.
My body is still shaking from the taser.
I don’t care. I reach the van just as the door starts to slide shut.
I grab the edge. A man inside swings at me with a baton.
It cracks across my forearm. I barely feel it.
I shove the door back, half inside the vehicle now.
Rowan’s eyes lock on mine.
Then a boot slams into my chest. Hard. I fly backward, hit the pavement, breath blasting out of me.
The van door slams shut. The engine roars. Tires spit gravel. And the van peels out of the lot, disappearing into the dark like it was never there.
I push up onto my hands, gasping, rage turning my blood hot.
Rowan’s gone.
And I have exactly one thought, sharp enough to cut. They just made this personal.