Chapter Thirty-Three – Unleashed #2
“We tracked the car to an industrial zone. They abandoned it in a blind spot,” Theo Zervas says. “Probably switched vehicles. No cameras. They’re ghosts.”
The truth lands hard.
We have nothing. No trail. No names. No images to match. Jo’s gone, and we’re staring into the same void my mother vanished into.
I look at my brothers, and I don’t have to say a word. We’re already moving, same thought, same rage.
I yank off the suit jacket and rip the tie loose as I walk, Shane doing the same beside me, shoulders rolling. Jay shrugs out of his jacket in two sharp movements and tosses it on a chair without a glance.
We head for the doors.
“Wait,” Jayme calls out behind us. “Where are you going?”
Shane doesn’t even turn around. “To take her back.”
I hear the rush of footsteps as Jayme catches up. “Wait! Let’s think this through! If they feel threatened, they might hurt her. Just wait; let them make contact. See what they want.”
He doesn’t understand that they’ll hurt her anyway. They’re counting on us to freeze and follow the rules. To wait politely for warrants and approval and jurisdiction.
We won’t.
They miscalculated. Whatever leash we had around our necks, that leash was Jo. We played by the rules to have the chance to meet her. To bond with her. Then we played by the rules again to protect her. To give her a good life. To stay home with her instead of in a prison cell.
But without her, there’s no leash. Nothing to lose and no reason to hold back.
I stop and turn to face Jayme. “They’ll never give her back. Our only chance is to take her ourselves.”
There’s dread in his eyes. I can see the gears turning, looking for something that might slow us down. But nothing anyone says can reach us now.
Andreas Zervas steps forward and locks eyes with me. “We’ll do what we can from here,” he says. “If anything comes up that can help, we’ll call.”
I nod once, then we’re gone. Out of the courthouse and into the Bronco.
“Make it under two hours, Kory,” Shane says, his voice cold and clipped.
We cross into New Jersey in just over an hour and a half. Straight to Saddle River — Aranya’s house address. I don’t know if he’s home, but I don’t care. Someone will be. And whoever it is, they’ll tell me what I need to know, one way or another.
Jay checks our situation as we hit the state line. “No guns. No tools to break in. Plan?”
“Brute force. Make do with whatever we find,” Shane answers. “There’s no other option.”
He’s right. We couldn’t carry weapons into the courthouse; we didn’t even think to grab any when we left home this morning.
The only tools in the Bronco are a cheap roadside kit, good for a flat tire, and not much else.
But there’s no time to fix it. Every minute Jo gets farther away.
Every second gives Aranya a better chance to disappear.
So we go in raw. Whatever happens, we handle it as it comes.
Aranya’s estate isn’t easy to find. It’s set back from the road by at least a quarter mile. Thick forest on either side. No visible mailbox, no address plaque, just black iron gates, tall, curved and ornate, with cameras mounted on either side.
I don’t stop. I aim straight for the gates and press the gas until the engine snarls under me. The Bronco lurches forward like she wants this too. Jay tense in the passenger seat, and Shane grips the handle by the door, but neither of them says a word.
We hit the gates at full speed. The impact rocks through us like a bomb. Metal twists and hinges explode. One side tears free; the other bends inward as the Bronco smashes through. For a second, all I hear is screeching metal and broken earth, then the tires catch again, and we’re in.
Gravel sprays under us as I push the Bronco forward, a guttural rattle rising under the hood. Ahead, the house looms in the distance.
Then the gunfire starts. But we already expected it. There’s no way Aranya didn’t keep guards on this place.
It slams into us like a wave. First, from the hedgerow near the drive. I hear the rounds ping against the armored body of the Bronco, the windshield shivering and cracking like ice.
I don’t stop.
Rounds hit the hood, the doors, the tires. One rear wheel kicks out slightly, but the Bronco holds. Steel groaning, engine growling. Every shot makes her sound like she’s dying, but she keeps going.
We’re thirty feet from the front of the house when I kill the engine.
Jay throws his door open and Shane’s out at the same time. I follow, rifle fire still cracking behind us. We move fast, using the doors as shields and the Bronco as cover.
One guard rushes from the right flank, rifle raised, shouting something I don’t bother listening to.
I meet him head-on. My fist lands first, and I don’t hold back.
I feel bone shatter and his skull caves in beneath my knuckles like brittle tile.
The crack is wet and final. He drops without a sound, dead before he hits the gravel.
I rip the rifle from his hands.
Another guard fires from the other side. Jay dives over the hood, slams into him shoulder-first and wrestles him down. Shane’s already there. His boots land on the man’s chest with full weight, and bone cracks under him, loud and brutal, ribs folding into lungs .
Two bodies down, two rifles in our hands.
Shane takes point as we move forward, clearing the outer walkway. I spot motion behind a stone pillar: another rifle rising. I shoot first. The guard spins and drops, blood smearing the stone. One less problem, one more rifle for us.
I hear a shout from above, someone on the balcony trying to move. Jay doesn’t hesitate. He drops to one knee, steadies the rifle, and fires. The shot punches straight through the guard’s forehead. He folds backward, disappearing from sight.
Then silence.
We hold position. Scan for movement. Listen.
Nothing.
Shane sweeps the left side of the house, quick and methodical. Jay checks the far end of the drive. I scan the front elevation and the treeline. No more shadows, no more voices.
We regroup at the door. It’s locked. Jay kicks hard, just beneath the deadbolt. The wood splinters and the door gives. We’re inside.
The empty living room has fancy stone floors, dim lights and high ceilings. We pause and sweep the space. Shane takes left, Jay moves right. I go center, checking corners and sightlines.
When I get close to the stairs, a scent hits me: a pack. Aggressive pheromones, thick in the air, concentrated upstairs. I stop for a minute, senses tuning in. There’s someone else with them. Human. Female. Only one. No one else in the house.
The pack isn’t here to protect the property, or they would have attacked us already. They’re guarding her personally. That means she’s important.
It must be Aranya’s wife.
The scent trail is easy to follow. We take the stairs, heading west. Corner bedroom. They're trying to make it a last stand.
We stop at the frame. It’s just a pack doing private security, the same kind of work we might’ve ended up doing ourselves if we’d lost the trial today.
From the panic edge in their scent, they’re probably Tier-Five.
Tier-Four at best. But I can’t afford sympathy or species solidarity. Not right now.
They’ll expect us to breach fast. I’m sure they’re positioned, weapons drawn, ready to storm fire us as soon as we burst through the door. And we need the human alive to get information, so have to be careful. The balcony is our best chance.
I glance at Jay; one look is all it takes. He nods, breath steady and shoulders loose.
He shifts toward the door, voice calm and cold: “Let the woman go. We don’t need you, just her.”
His tone carries just enough steel to sound real and just enough indifference to keep them guessing .
I turn to Shane and tilt my head toward the far end of the hall. He falls in beside me. We move low and fast, boots silent against tile, cutting through the central stairwell and heading down, then out the door.
I look up, scanning balconies, counting windows and glass doors. Then I find it. Third set of pillars from the west side: same faint scent trail from the pack and the woman.
Jay’s voice carries through the walls: “No reason to die for a human. Hand her over, and this ends clean.”
The balcony’s stone column is smooth but not impossible. The corner seams catch just enough boot tread. I test the weight, then grip the vertical edge with both hands and climb.
At the top, I cling to the balustrade like a shadow, just my hands gripping between the stone spindles, the rest of my body hanging like a vine. If one of them looks out through the glass door, all they’ll see is the curve of stone. Maybe a fingertip.
Shane climbs right behind me and stops two feet below, holding position.
I pull up just enough to scan the room from my angle. It’s easy to see them through the glass door of the balcony. They are facing the room’s hallway door, backs exposed to us, rifles up, bodies tense, but I can’t see the woman. She’s either on the floor, hidden by the bed, or in the closet.
Jay’s voice floats up again, steady and measured, hooking their attention. “We don’t want to kill you. But if you don’t give her to us, we may have to.”
One of the aegis snaps at him, “Back off or we shoot.”
I move. Hands sliding along the cold stone, shifting grip one pillar at a time like a monkey in a cage. I angle toward the far side of the balcony, away from the glass door’s line of sight. There’s a section of wall there that can give me solid cover.
Shane joins me seconds later, mirroring my movements to the opposite side. When we’re both in position, I nod once and we pull up in sync, climbing over the railing.
Jay keeps talking. “I’m giving you a way out. This doesn’t have to end ugly.”
Shane positions himself to the right of the glass door, I to the left. We raise our rifles in tandem. Breaths synced. Sights locked.
Inside the aegis shift, one leans toward the door, distracted. Exposed. The other two flank him, all eyes forward. That’s the moment.
Four shots tear through the glass, shattering it in a spray of fragments: two from me and two from Shane. Three heads jerk forward, the center one hit twice. Bodies drop and the woman screams.
Jay is already moving. He slams the bedroom door open just as Shane and I push through the rain of broken shards, stepping into the room from the balcony.
I spot the woman on the floor, just beside a bed so massive it’s almost the size of our nest. I step toward her. She’s pale, shaking, with tears streaking through her makeup .
“Where is he?” I ask.
“At his office,” she gasps. “At his office. Please. Please — I swear.”
Jay’s voice cuts in, clean and cold. “Where?”
She swallows hard, shoulders trembling. “Harrison,” she cries. “Corner of Bayliss and Mercer. Old warehouse with black windows.”
I crouch in front of her. She leans back.
I don’t raise my voice. “What’s he doing there? Who’s with him?”
She jerks her head side to side, fast and desperate. “Nobody! He’s alone! He’s just packing.”
So he’s moving again. As expected.
I lock eyes with her. “If anyone tips him that we’re coming,” I say quietly, “I don’t care who it is, I’ll chase you down. And I’ll kill you myself.”
She starts to sob.
We turn away, heading straight to the garage. The Bronco is shot to hell, tires shredded, doors pocked with holes and windshield spider-webbed. No way it’ll get us to Harrison, so we’ll make do with whatever vehicle we find.
In the garage, we quickly assess our options: a matte black Audi Q7, a silver Mercedes GLE, a smaller Jaguar SUV, and a pearl-white Lexus LX 600, all lined up like showroom pieces.
On the wall there’s a steel key cabinet. Jay pops it open. Inside, four keys, each neatly labeled in sharp black marker: AUDI. GLE. JAG. LEXUS.
Shane shakes his head. “We’re not fitting in one.”
He’s right. No way we can cram three into one cabin. “Take one each,” I say. “Squeeze in however you can.”
Jay and Shane grab keys, and I take one too. It doesn’t matter which car, just needs to move.
Thirty-five minutes to Harrison.
Maybe less.