Chapter 34 — Wolves and Lions
The darkness inside the van wasn’t the luxurious darkness of Ethan’s bedroom, where the black smelled of sandalwood and clean sheets. This darkness was suffocating, reeking of burnt rubber, rust, and the acrid stench of fear left behind by whoever had been there before her.
Maya lay on the metal floor, her body vibrating with the vehicle’s tremors as it sped along. Her hands were bound behind her back with plastic zip ties so tight they cut off circulation, making her fingers tingle. Her ankles were secured with silver industrial duct tape.
She wasn’t unconscious, but she wished she were. The chemical-soaked cloth they’d pressed against her face hadn’t knocked her out completely—it had only left her in a nauseating haze where the world spun in slow motion and her limbs felt like wet cotton.
She heard voices.
“...said she was alone. No security. Nothing.”
“Vance dumped her. Threw her out like trash. Everyone knows.”
“So why are we doing this? If he doesn’t care, he won’t pay.”
“Julian said to grab her. Julian pays. And he said Vance always cares about his things, even after they break. It’s a matter of pride.”
Julian.
The name cut through the chemical fog in Maya’s brain like a scalpel. Julian Baxter. The man with the broken finger. The playboy who’d tried to touch her at the gala and been humiliated by Ethan in front of Vegas elite.
This wasn’t a random kidnapping. These weren’t organ traffickers. This was revenge.
The van made a sharp turn, throwing Maya against the metal wall. The pain in her shoulder was acute, but it helped wake her up a little more.
The vehicle stopped. The engine died, but the silence that followed was worse. It was the silence of an isolated place.
The back door burst open with a crash.
Rough hands grabbed her by the ankles and dragged her out. Maya hit her hip on the bumper and fell onto the concrete floor.
She blinked, trying to focus. The air was stifling, hot and still. It smelled of dust, machine oil, and dead rats. A warehouse. Abandoned, somewhere in the industrial zone, far from the lights and cameras of the Strip.
“Lift her up,” a voice ordered.
Two men hoisted her up, holding her by the arms. They dragged her to the center of the cavernous space, where a single bulb hanging from a wire cast a sickly yellow light over a rusted metal chair.
They threw her into the chair and secured her wrists and ankles to the metal frame with more duct tape.
Maya tried to speak, but her mouth was dry, her tongue heavy.
“Water...” she whispered.
“Water costs extra, princess.”
A figure emerged from the shadows.
It wasn’t one of the hoodie-wearing thugs. This one wore a suit, but it was wrinkled, stained. He had a sling on his right arm, holding his bandaged hand against his chest.
Julian Baxter.
He looked different from the man at the gala. The polished arrogance had vanished, replaced by a feverish, desperate malice. He was sweating. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils dilated—cocaine or strong painkillers for the broken finger.
He stopped in front of her, smiling.
“Hello, Maya. Remember me?”
“Julian...” she managed.
“Mr. Baxter to you, bitch.” He used his good hand to slap her across the face. It wasn’t hard, but it was humiliating—a dry crack that snapped her head to the side.
“You look terrible,” he said, laughing. “What happened? Prince Charming get tired of the commoner? I heard you left the Obsidian looking like a beggar.”
He leaned in, his sweaty face close to hers.
“You know, when Ethan broke my finger...” he raised his bandaged hand, displaying it like a war trophy, “...he said I couldn’t touch you because you were his. But if he threw you away... that means you belong to nobody. And things that belong to nobody... we can take.”
“He’ll kill you,” Maya said. The words came out automatically, a prayer to the dark god she’d abandoned.
Julian laughed louder.
“He won’t do anything! He kicked you out! He’s all over the news, closing deals with the Japanese. He doesn’t give a damn where you are.”
“Then why kidnap me?” Maya asked, trying to buy time, trying to think. “If he doesn’t care, I’m worthless.”
“Oh, you’re worth something,” Julian said, his eyes gleaming with cruelty.
“You’re worth his humiliation. Even if he doesn’t want you anymore, Ethan has an ego the size of the Grand Canyon.
Knowing his little ex-girlfriend is here, with me, screaming...
that’ll bother him. It’ll tarnish his impeccable reputation. ”
He signaled to one of the henchmen.
“Get the phone. We’re going to send a little ‘hello’ to our mutual friend.”
The henchman handed Julian a smartphone.
Julian pointed the camera at Maya.
“Smile, sweetheart. Say ‘cheese.’”
He took a photo. The flash blinded Maya momentarily.
Julian looked at the screen, satisfied.
“Perfect. A little terror in the eyes. That always sells.”
He started typing.
Maya felt her heart pounding so hard it hurt. She knew what he was doing. He was sending the photo to Ethan.
What if Ethan didn’t respond? What if he’d blocked the number? What if he really didn’t care anymore?
That doubt was more terrifying than the knife one of the henchmen was idly cleaning in the corner of the room.
If Ethan didn’t come… she was alone with these men. Men who didn’t have Ethan’s twisted code of honor. Men who would hurt her not to possess her, but to break her and throw her away.
“Sent,” Julian said.
The silence in the warehouse stretched. Seconds. Minutes.
Julian stared at the phone, impatient.
“Come on, Vance. Don’t keep me waiting.”
Nothing.
The phone stayed silent.
Julian frowned. His confidence started to waver.
“Maybe he changed his number,” he muttered. “Or maybe he really doesn’t give a damn about this whore.”
He looked at Maya with renewed anger.
“If he doesn’t respond in five minutes, we’re going to start the fun without him. And then we’ll send him the video.”
He moved toward her, his good hand reaching for the collar of her shirt.
“Let’s see what he found so special…”
“NO!” Maya screamed, thrashing in the chair. “ETHAN! ETHAN!”
She screamed his name. Not like a victim calling the police, but like a believer calling out to her god at the end of the world. She screamed with the visceral certainty that if he could hear her, he would come.
Julian laughed.
“Scream louder. Maybe he’ll hear you from the penthouse.”
Julian’s phone rang.
It wasn’t a message. It was a call.
The shrill ringtone echoed through the silent warehouse, making everyone jump.
Julian looked at the screen. His smile faltered.
“Unknown number.”
He answered, putting the phone on speaker, arrogant to the end.
“Hello?”
There was no immediate response. Just the sound of breathing. Slow. Heavy. Controlled.
And then, a voice.
It wasn’t Ethan’s voice. It was mechanical, synthesized, cold as outer space.
“Three minutes.”
Julian frowned.
“Who is this? What do you want?”
“Two minutes and fifty-eight seconds.”
The line went dead.
Julian stared at the phone, confused.
“What the fuck was that?”
One of the henchmen, an older man with scars on his face, stepped forward, looking nervous.
“Boss… I think we should get out of here. This doesn’t feel right.”
“Get out?” Julian scoffed. “We’re in control! Vance is playing mind games. He’s probably tracing the call.”
“If he’s tracing it… he knows where we are.”
Julian paled slightly, but pride won out.
“So what? He’s going to send the cops? I have lawyers.”
“He’s not going to send the cops,” Maya said. Her voice was low but steady. She’d stopped trembling. Because she knew. She recognized the pattern. The countdown.
She looked at Julian.
“He’s coming. Personally.”
Julian looked at her and laughed, but the laugh sounded forced.
“Let him come. I’ve got four armed men. He’s just a pretty boy in a suit.”
“He’s a monster,” Maya corrected. “And you just woke him up.”
BOOM.
The sound didn’t come from the door. It came from the wall.
The corrugated metal wall at the back of the warehouse exploded inward.
It wasn’t a bomb. It was a massive kinetic impact.
A vehicle—a black SUV, armored, with a reinforced grille on the bumper—crashed through the metal wall like it was aluminum foil.
Metal tore, glass flew, concrete dust filled the air.
The SUV skidded to a stop in the middle of the warehouse, its xenon headlights slicing through the dust like lightsabers, blinding everyone.
Julian's henchmen recoiled, covering their faces, coughing. One of them drew a weapon, but his hesitation proved fatal.
The SUV doors opened before the car even came to a complete stop.
Four figures leaped out. Dressed in tactical black. Bulletproof vests. Masks. Automatic weapons with silencers.
Miller's elite team.
Pft. Pft. Pft.
The sound of the shots was muffled, almost polite.
The henchman who'd drawn his weapon fell, clutching his leg. The other, who'd been holding the knife, dropped the blade and raised his hands, his face white with terror.
In seconds, the warehouse was taken. Military efficiency. Surgical brutality.
Julian stood beside Maya, paralyzed. He held the phone like it was a useless shield.
“What…” he stammered.
Then the driver's door opened.
Ethan stepped out.
He wasn't wearing tactical gear. He wore the navy suit from the TV interview. It was impeccable, except for the dust already settling on his shoulders.
He didn't run. He walked.
Long, heavy strides, echoing on the concrete.
He held a black pistol in his right hand, at his side. He didn't point it. He carried it as if it were an extension of his hand, an accessory as natural as his watch.
His face was calm. Terribly calm. But his eyes…
Maya had never seen those eyes like that. There was no humanity in them. The man who'd washed her hair was gone. There was only death.
Julian backed away, stumbling over Maya's chair. He grabbed the back of the chair, using Maya as a human shield.
“Don't come any closer!” Julian screamed, his voice shrill. “I'll kill her! I swear!”
Ethan stopped fifteen feet away.
He looked at Julian. Then he looked at Maya.
His gaze swept over her body. He saw the restraints. He saw the red mark on her face where Julian had hit her. He saw the terror and relief in her eyes.
“Let her go,” Ethan said.
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It was the voice of thunder before lightning.
“Get back!” Julian screamed, pulling a small knife from his pocket—a ridiculous pocketknife blade—and holding it near Maya's neck. “Tell your men to back off! I want a car! I want out of here!”
Ethan looked at the knife. Then he looked at Julian with contempt so deep it seemed physical.
“You think you're in a movie, Julian? You think you can negotiate?”
Ethan raised his weapon.
He didn't aim. He simply fired.
BANG.
The sound was deafening in the enclosed space.
Julian's hand—the good hand, the one holding the knife—exploded in blood.
The knife went flying.
Julian screamed, falling backward, clutching his shattered wrist.
“Ahhhhh! My hand! You shot my hand!”
Ethan walked up to him. He kicked the knife away.
He stood over Julian, who was writhing on the ground, crying, bleeding, a mess of a broken man.
Ethan looked at him with the indifference of someone looking at a crushed insect.
“I said I'd take your hand if you touched her again,” Ethan said calmly. “I'm a man of my word.”
He turned to Maya.
He holstered the weapon at the small of his back, under his jacket.
He knelt in front of her.
His hands—now dirty with dust, but steady—touched her face. He examined the mark from the slap. His fingers trembled slightly.
“Are you okay?” he asked. His voice changed. The coldness disappeared, replaced by raw urgency.
“Ethan…” Maya sobbed. “You came.”
“Of course I came,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Did you think I wouldn't?”
He pulled out a knife—a black tactical blade from his belt—and cut the tape binding her wrists and ankles with quick, precise movements.
As soon as her arms were free, Maya threw herself at him.
She hugged him hard, burying her face in his neck, inhaling the scent of gunpowder and sandalwood. She cried against his expensive suit, staining it with blood and tears and dust.
Ethan wrapped his arms around her. He pressed her against him with a force that almost hurt, but it was exactly what she needed. He held her as if trying to fuse her bones to his.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “I'm sorry I let you leave. I should never have opened that door.”
Maya shook her head against his chest.
“I ran away. It was my fault.”
“No,” he said fiercely. He pulled back to look into her eyes. “The world is to blame. These animals…” he gestured toward Julian groaning on the floor, “…they’re to blame.”
He stood up, pulling her with him. Maya’s legs gave out, but he held her. He scooped her up, cradling her against his chest.
“Let’s go home,” he said.
He started walking toward the wrecked SUV.
“What about him?” Maya asked, looking at Julian.
Ethan stopped. He didn’t look back.
“Miller,” he said.
The head of security, who had been standing in the shadows, stepped forward.
“Yes, Mr. Vance.”
“Clean this up. And make sure Mr. Baxter understands that his debt to society… and to me… has been paid. Permanently.”
He didn’t say “kill him.” But the implication hung in the air, heavy and cold.
Miller nodded.
Ethan got into the car with Maya in his lap. The door closed, isolating them from the smell of blood and fear.
Maya rested her head on his shoulder. The engine started. The air conditioning kicked on.
She was safe. She was back in the cage.
And as the car pulled away, leaving the warehouse behind, Maya realized that the only thing that scared her more than almost dying… was how happy she was to have been captured again.