Chapter 44
SILAS
The Ramirez dealership is quiet at this hour—after nine, most of the staff gone home, just skeleton crew and Maria herself working late in her office. The showroom floor is eerily empty, luxury vehicles gleaming under fluorescent lights like sleeping predators.
Marcus and Rodriguez secured the perimeter while Chen disabled the security feeds. I don’t want evidence of what’s about to happen here.
Not if it goes the way I think it will.
Maria Ramirez looks up when I push open her office door, her expression shifting from mild annoyance at the interruption to genuine concern when she sees my face.
“Silas.” She stands immediately, her hand not going to her drawer this time. Smart woman. She knows I’m not here to hurt her. “What’s wrong? Is Charles—”
“Charles is fine.” I close the door behind me, Rodriguez stationing himself outside. “But we have a problem.”
“Sit. Tell me.” She gestures to the chair across from her desk, but I stay standing. Can’t sit. Too much energy, too much rage coursing through my veins.
“Someone used equipment from your dealership to create fake license plates,” I say without preamble. “Those plates were on vehicles used in an attack this afternoon. An attack that put children in danger.”
Maria’s face goes pale. “What? Silas, I swear I didn’t—”
“I know.” I cut her off. “I’m not here because I think you’re involved. I’m here because someone who works for you is. And I need to know who.”
She sinks back into her chair, her hand going to her chest. “Dios mío. Who was there? Who was attacked?”
“Parker and her boys. Sienna with Jimmy and Lottie. Jace, Cal, Charles, and me.” I watch her face drain of color. “We were at the park playing baseball.”
“The children—” Maria’s voice breaks. “Please tell me—”
“They’re alive. Scared, traumatized, but alive. No one was physically hurt.” I pull out my phone, showing her the images Cal sent—the fake plates, the manufacturing markers. “But it was close, Maria. Too fucking close. And these plates came from your facility. Probably within the last week.”
Maria’s hand is shaking as she reaches for her desk, steadying herself.
“Parker’s boys and Sienna’s kids. Oh God, Evelyn called me earlier and I’ve been so swamped, I haven’t called her back.
She must be—” She stops, her professional mask snapping back into place even as I can see tears threatening. “What do you need?”
“The name of who has access to your plate-making equipment.”
“Of course.” She’s already pulling up files on her computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard despite the tremor. “I keep detailed logs of equipment usage. The plate maker is restricted access—only three people have keys.”
“Names.”
“Me, my head mechanic Roberto, and...” She pauses, her expression darkening. “Diego Ruiz. He’s a salesman, but he used to work in the fabrication department before he moved to sales. He kept his access because sometimes we need custom work for high-end clients.”
“Diego Ruiz,” I repeat, committing the name to memory. “Where is he now?”
“Let me check.” She pulls up another screen, scanning.
“He’s in the back lot, doing inventory count.
” She looks up at me, and I see genuine fury beneath the distress.
“If one of my people did this, if they threatened those babies—Silas, Parker is like a niece to me. I helped Evelyn get her out of the city when she was pregnant, gave her money so she could build a life somewhere safe. Those boys—” Her voice cracks.
“I’ve never even met them, but they’re family.
And Sienna’s children, Charles’s children—”
“I know.” I keep my voice steady. “Which is why I need to take Diego somewhere private. This can’t happen on your property, Maria. You can’t be connected to what comes next.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes. “Where will you take him?”
“Somewhere remote. Somewhere no one will hear what needs to be heard.” I pull out my phone. “I’ll call Charles, let him know what’s happening. He’ll want to be there.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Diego’s exact location. Any weapons he might have on him. His vehicle information in case he runs.”
Maria pulls up everything immediately, sending the details to my phone.
“His car is a silver Honda Civic, parked in the employee lot, spot E-47. He typically carries a knife—switchblade, keeps it in his right pocket. He’s right-handed, average build, some self-defense training from our employee security courses. ”
“Good.” I head for the door, then pause. “After we’re gone, you should call Evelyn. She and the others—they’re going to need family around them.”
“I will.” Maria stands. “Silas? When you find out who he was working with, when you know who ordered this—”
“We’ll handle it.”
“Good.” Her voice is steel. “They threatened children. My children, in every way that matters. There’s no mercy for that.”
I leave her office, pulling out my phone as I walk.
Charles answers on the second ring. “Silas?”
“I found our leak. Diego Ruiz, works at Maria’s dealership. He had access to the plate-making equipment.”
“Where is he?”
“Still on site. I’m about to collect him, take him to the Blackwood location.” The remote property we use for situations exactly like this—isolated, soundproof, no neighbors for miles. “You should be there.”
“I’m twenty minutes out. Don’t start without me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I hang up, signaling to Marcus and Rodriguez. “Target is in the back lot. We take him quiet, get him in the vehicle. He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t alert anyone. Clean extraction.”
They nod, moving into position.
Diego Ruiz never sees it coming.
He’s bent over his clipboard, counting inventory, completely oblivious. Rodriguez approaches from behind while I come from the side, boxing him in.
“Diego Ruiz?” I ask pleasantly.
He looks up, startled. “Yeah? Can I help you?”
“We need to have a conversation.”
I see the moment recognition hits—not of who I am specifically, but of what I represent. Danger. Threat. Violence.
He reaches for his pocket—for the knife Maria mentioned—but Marcus is already there, grabbing his wrist, twisting it behind his back.
Diego opens his mouth to shout and I’m on him, my hand clamping over his mouth and nose, cutting off air and sound simultaneously.
“Quiet,” I murmur in his ear. “Or this gets much worse.”
He struggles for a few seconds, then goes limp as the lack of oxygen hits. Not unconscious yet, but compliant.
Marcus zip-ties his hands behind his back. Rodriguez gags him with a strip of cloth. I inject him with a mild sedative—enough to keep him docile for the drive, not enough to knock him out completely.
We move him to the SUV parked in the shadows, loading him into the back. The whole thing takes less than three minutes.
No one sees. No one hears.
Diego Ruiz just disappeared from the Ramirez dealership, and no one will ever be able to prove he was taken.
The Blackwood location is forty minutes outside the city, down a series of back roads that don’t appear on most maps. It’s an old industrial building—used to be a meatpacking plant before it was abandoned, then acquired by the Carter organization for exactly this purpose.
Interrogations. Disposals. The work that can’t be done anywhere people might notice.
I pull into the facility’s garage, the door closing automatically behind us. Charles’s car is already here—he must have driven like hell to beat us.
He’s waiting in the main room when we bring Diego in. The space is exactly what it needs to be—concrete floors with drains, walls lined with tools, a metal chair bolted to the floor in the center, industrial lights overhead that make everything stark and shadow-less.
No place to hide. No comfort. Just cold efficiency.
Diego is more awake now, the sedative wearing off, his eyes going wide as he takes in his surroundings. Marcus and Rodriguez strip him efficiently—clothes, shoes, watch, everything. Leave him in just his boxers, shivering in the cool air.
Then they chain him to the chair—wrists, ankles, chest. Secure enough that he can’t move, can’t escape, can barely even shift his weight.
“Leave us,” Charles says to Marcus and Rodriguez. “Wait outside. Make sure we’re not disturbed.”
They nod, disappearing through the door.
And then it’s just the three of us.
Charles. Me. Diego.
I walk slowly to the wall where my tools are arranged. Most of them are traditional—knives of various sizes, pliers, hammers, things that have been used for interrogation for centuries.
But some are my own design.
Like the drill.
It looks innocuous at first—just a modified power tool, compact, battery-operated. But the bit I’ve attached isn’t meant for wood or metal.
It’s meant for flesh.
When activated, the bit extends small metal spikes—a dozen of them, each one sharp as a needle, each one positioned to cause maximum pain with minimum actual damage. It looks like a fucked-up tiny Christmas tree, all sharp edges and no mercy.
I pick it up, testing the weight, letting Diego see it.
His eyes go wider. He starts to hyperventilate behind the gag.
I turn it on.
The motor whirs to life, and the spikes extend with a series of small clicks. It’s loud in the quiet room—mechanical, merciless, promising pain in a way that words never could.
Diego’s entire body goes rigid with terror.
I let it run for a few seconds, watching him, watching the fear build. Watching him understand exactly how bad this could get.
Then I turn it off. Set it down on the table next to him where he can see it.
“That’s for later,” I say conversationally. “If you make us work for information. If you waste our time. If you lie.”
I pull the gag from his mouth. He immediately starts babbling.
“Please, please, I don’t know what you think I did but I swear—”