CHAPTER 19
Gemma
The violent jerk of my body being dragged across the metal floor of the van sends a white-hot spike of agony straight through my ribs.
I scream, the sound tearing out of my throat before I can stop it. The stitches hold, but the flesh around them burns as if someone has poured acid directly into the wound.
"Get her out!" a voice barks, harsh and loud over the idling engine of the patrol vehicle parked inches from our bumper.
Hands grab the heavy nylon of Callum’s tactical jacket, hauling me backward. I kick out blindly, my heavy boot connecting solidly with something that feels like a kneecap.
The man curses, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second.
I try to twist away, scrambling toward the front gap between the seats where Ben is slumped over the steering wheel. There is a dark, wet patch of blood spreading across the side of Ben’s head. He isn't moving.
"Ben!" I yell, reaching for him.
Before my fingers can brush his shoulder, a heavy hand wraps around my ankle and yanks hard.
I hit the metal floor of the van face-first. The impact knocks the air completely out of my lungs. I gasp, my vision swimming with gray static as I am dragged the rest of the way out the back doors.
I hit the cold asphalt of the highway shoulder.
The morning sun is blinding. Two men in dark tactical gear are standing over me. They don't look like the private security detail from Marcus Thorne’s compound. They aren't wearing neat uniforms. They look rough, heavily armed, and entirely devoid of hesitation.
"Check her for weapons," the taller one orders, keeping his rifle trained directly on my chest.
The second man drops to one knee beside me. He grabs my shoulder, rolling me roughly onto my back. I groan, my hand flying instinctively to cover the left side of my ribs.
He ignores my pain. His hands move quickly over the tactical jacket, patting down the pockets. He finds the Sig Sauer I had tucked into the waistband of my jeans. He pulls it out, checking the chamber before tossing it onto the asphalt behind him.
He continues the search, his hands moving lower.
My heart stops.
The encrypted drive is in the front left pocket of my jeans, sitting directly beneath the heavy bandage covering my stitches.
If they find the drive, Callum’s entire plan falls apart. The syndicate gets their money back, Marcus Thorne’s death means nothing, and I lose my only piece of leverage to stay alive.
As the mercenary’s hand moves toward my left hip, I don't think. I react.
I let out a sharp, breathless scream, arching my back off the pavement and curling my knees up as if the pain in my ribs is suddenly unbearable. I press both of my hands hard over the left side of my waist, physically blocking his access to the pocket.
"Don't touch it," I gasp, squeezing my eyes shut, forcing real tears of pain to spill over my lashes. "Please, it’s torn open. Don't touch it."
The mercenary pauses. He looks at my hands, then at the dark, dried blood staining the cashmere hoodie visible beneath the open jacket.
"She’s bleeding out," the kneeling man says, looking up at his partner. "Looks like shrapnel."
"I don't care if she’s bleeding out," the taller man snaps. "The boss wants her alive to decrypt the rest of the ledger. If she dies before she types the password, we don't get paid. Put her in the truck."
The kneeling man grabs my upper arms, hauling me to my feet.
The sudden vertical shift makes the world tilt dangerously on its axis. I sway, my knees buckling, but the mercenary keeps me upright, dragging me toward a heavily armored black SUV parked behind the van.
"What about the driver?" the man holding me asks, nodding toward the van where Ben is still slumped over the wheel.
"Leave him," the leader says, opening the rear door of the SUV. "He’s just logistics. The fixer is the only one who matters, and he isn't here."
They shove me into the backseat of the SUV.
I land hard against the leather upholstery, biting my lip to keep from crying out again. The door slams shut behind me. The locks engage with a heavy, electronic clunk .
I am trapped.
The two mercenaries climb into the front seats. The driver throws the SUV into gear, pulling a sharp U-turn on the empty highway, heading west. Away from the Hamptons. Away from Callum.
I press my back against the door panel, pulling my knees up to my chest. My left hand remains clamped tightly over my front pocket, guarding the small piece of plastic hidden inside.
"Where are you taking me?" I ask. My voice shakes, but I force myself to speak. I need information.
The men in the front seat don't answer.
"If you want the ledger," I try again, my mind racing through the variables, "you need my rig. The servers are at the safe house. I can't decrypt the files on a standard laptop."
"Shut up," the driver says, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. "You’ll decrypt it on whatever machine the boss puts in front of you, or we’ll start breaking fingers."
I close my mouth.
I lean my head against the cold glass of the window, watching the trees blur past.
If I am pinned down by law enforcement, I am already dead or captured. If you stay, you get captured with me.
Callum’s words from the motel room echo in my head. He told me to run. He ordered me to leave him behind if things went wrong.
But things didn't go wrong for him. They went wrong for me.
I close my eyes, the exhaustion and the pain finally beginning to overwhelm the adrenaline. I try to calculate the distance we are traveling. I try to memorize the turns. But the rhythmic hum of the tires on the highway slowly drags me down into a dark, heavy silence.
When I wake up, the SUV is no longer moving.
The engine is off. The doors are open.
Someone grabs my arm, hauling me out of the backseat. My boots hit concrete.
I blink against the harsh, artificial light. We are in an underground parking garage. It’s entirely empty, save for a few luxury vehicles parked near a private elevator bank. The air smells of exhaust fumes and damp concrete.
"Walk," the mercenary behind me orders, shoving a rifle barrel hard against the center of my back.
I stumble forward, my hand automatically pressing against my ribs.
They march me toward the elevator. The taller mercenary pulls a keycard from his vest, swiping it over the scanner. The heavy metal doors slide open.
We step inside. The elevator doesn't go up. It goes down.
The digital display above the door drops from G to B1 , then B2 , then B3 .
We are going deep underground.
When the doors finally open, the environment changes completely. We step into a pristine, brightly lit hallway with white walls and polished tile floors. It looks like a high-end corporate office, entirely disconnected from the dirty parking garage above.
"Move," the guard says, pushing me down the hall.
We stop in front of a heavy, soundproofed door at the end of the corridor. The guard swipes his keycard again.
He opens the door and shoves me inside.
I stumble into the room, catching myself on the edge of a heavy metal table bolted to the floor.
The room is stark. There are no windows. The walls are lined with acoustic foam paneling. In the center of the room sits a single metal chair and the table. On the table is a high-end laptop, completely disconnected from any external network.
Standing behind the table is a man.
He isn't wearing tactical gear. He is wearing a bespoke, charcoal-gray suit that probably costs more than my entire life’s earnings. He is older, his hair silver at the temples, but his posture is rigid and commanding. He looks like a CEO.
He looks like the kind of man who orders people to be killed without ever raising his voice.
"Gemma Hayes," the man says. His voice is smooth, cultured, and entirely devoid of warmth. "I am Elias Vance. I believe you have something that belongs to me."
I straighten my posture, forcing myself to stand tall despite the burning pain in my side.
"I don't know what you’re talking about," I say.
Elias smiles. It is a thin, terrifying expression.
"Please, Miss Hayes. Let us not insult each other’s intelligence." He gestures to the laptop on the table. "Marcus Thorne informed us that you stole the primary ledger drive. He also informed us that Callum Reed orchestrated the theft."
"Marcus lied," I say, keeping my voice steady. "Callum didn't hire me. He was trying to get the drive back for Marcus."
"I am aware," Elias says calmly.
I blink, completely thrown off balance. "You know he lied?"
"Of course I know he lied. Marcus is a coward.
Cowards always lie when they are cornered.
" Elias walks around the table, stopping a few feet away from me.
"But his lie created a very convenient narrative. The syndicate’s accounts were drained this morning.
Four point two billion dollars, vanished into the ether.
It is a catastrophic loss of operational capital. "
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, silver tablet.
"However," Elias continues, "if the syndicate believes that Callum Reed and a rogue hacker stole the money, the blame falls entirely on you. Not on the internal security failures of my organization. You are the perfect scapegoats."
"You want us to take the fall for the hack," I say, the realization dawning on me.
"I want the money back," Elias corrects, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"I want you to sit at that computer, log into the ghost accounts, and transfer the funds back to our secure servers. Once the money is returned, I will deliver your body, and Callum Reed’s body, to the syndicate board as proof that the threat has been neutralized. "
"And if I refuse?"
Elias doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't pull a weapon. He simply looks at the two mercenaries standing by the door.
"If you refuse, they will break your left hand," Elias says clinically. "Then they will break your right hand. Then they will begin removing fingers until you realize that typing the password is the only way to make the pain stop."
My heart hammers against my ribs.
I look at the laptop. I look at the two heavily armed men. I look at the pristine, soundproofed walls.
I am entirely alone.
Callum is miles away in the Hamptons. He doesn't know where this building is. He doesn't know I am three floors underground. Even if he survived the assault on Marcus Thorne’s compound, he cannot find me here.
I slip my left hand into the pocket of my jeans.
My fingers wrap around the small, hard plastic casing of the encrypted drive.
I don't have the routing numbers memorized. The ghost accounts are buried beneath layers of encryption on this physical drive. If I give them the drive, they get the money. If they get the money, Callum and I are dead.
I look back at Elias Vance.
"I don't have the routing numbers," I lie, my voice remarkably calm. "They were on a secondary server at the safe house. When your men blew the water main, Callum detonated the servers. The data is gone."
Elias stares at me. The polite, cultured mask slips, revealing the absolute, ruthless violence underneath.
"Search her," Elias orders the guards. "Strip her if you have to. Find the drive."
The taller mercenary steps forward, grabbing my right arm and twisting it violently behind my back.
I scream, the sudden torque pulling the stitches in my ribs completely taut. I feel a sharp, wet tearing sensation as the sutures give way. Hot blood instantly floods down my side, soaking into the denim of my jeans.
The mercenary shoves me face-first onto the metal table.
"Hold her down," he barks to his partner.
The second man grabs my shoulders, pinning me flat against the cold steel. I thrash wildly, kicking my legs, but they are too heavy. They are too strong.
The first mercenary grabs the hem of the tactical jacket, ripping it open. He reaches for the waistband of my jeans.
"No!" I scream, twisting my hips desperately.
Before his hand can reach my pocket, the heavy, soundproofed door of the interrogation room explodes inward.
It doesn't just open. It is blown off its hinges by a concentrated breaching charge, the heavy steel slab flying across the room and crashing into the acoustic foam wall.
A thick cloud of gray smoke and pulverized concrete fills the corridor outside.
The two mercenaries release me instantly, spinning toward the doorway, their hands flying to their holstered weapons.
They don't even clear leather.
Two suppressed shots ring out in rapid succession. Pfft. Pfft.
The taller mercenary drops to the floor, a neat, dark hole directly between his eyes. The second man stumbles backward, clutching his throat as blood sprays across the pristine white tiles, before collapsing against the metal table.
Elias Vance freezes, his eyes wide with absolute shock.
Through the smoke in the doorway, a figure steps into the room.
He is covered in dirt, water, and blood. His tactical vest is torn, and his dark hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. He is holding the M4 carbine in his right hand, the barrel smoking slightly in the cool air of the room.
Callum Reed looks exactly like a ghost.
A very angry, heavily armed ghost.
He doesn't look at Elias. He doesn't look at the dead men on the floor. His dark, lethal eyes sweep the room, locking instantly onto me.
I am leaning against the metal table, clutching my bleeding side, my chest heaving.
Callum lowers the rifle.
"I told you," he says, his voice a low, rough growl that echoes in the quiet room. "I am not going to let anyone take you."