Chapter 45 The Kill Box
THE KILL BOX
KAIDEN
Cold.
That's the first thing. Cold concrete bleeding through my shirt, seeping into my bones.
Then the smell. Rust. Mildew. Blood, dried and fresh, hanging in the stale air.
The pain arrives last. A vicious throb at the base of my skull, radiating down my neck. I try to move, and my ankle folds under me. Useless. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming.
“Easy.” Logan's voice comes from my left. “Don't move too fast.”
The light is dim. A single bare bulb swinging overhead, casting shadows that shift and sway. The room is industrial. Exposed pipes along the ceiling. Concrete walls. No windows. One door at the top of a metal staircase.
A kill box.
Logan sits against a support beam a few feet away, arms behind his back. Bound, I assume, same as me. His face is worse than mine feels. Split lip, swollen eye, dried blood crusted from his hairline to his jaw. Someone worked him over.
“Jesus.” My voice comes out wrecked. “Logan—“
“I'm fine.” He says it flat, the way that means he's not fine at all but doesn't want any pity.
I test my restraints. Zip ties, tight enough that my fingers are going numb. Legs free but useless. Ankle throbbing with every heartbeat. Twisted at best. Broken again at worst.
I can't run. I can barely stand.
“How long?” I ask.
“Few hours, maybe.” Logan shifts, winces. “They took my phone. Yours too. My gun.”
So much for that advantage.
I lean my head back against cold concrete, trying to steady my breathing. Think of a way out.
Somewhere above us, footsteps echo. Voices muffled. The building creaks and groans like a living thing.
“Kai.” Logan's voice drops. “Whatever happens—“
“Don't.”
He keeps going. “I've been thinking. While you were out.” A pause. “We've had a good run, you know? Fifteen years of your family's bullshit, and I'm still here.”
Despite everything, I almost laugh. “That's supposed to make me feel better?”
“It's supposed to remind you that I chose this.” His jaw tightens. “So whatever happens, no regrets.”
I look at my best friend, beaten and bound because of my name, my blood, my goddamn legacy.
“I've been a shit friend.” The words scrape out of me, raw and graceless. “This past year. Longer. I got so caught up in the war with Victor, in proving I could build something without him, that I disappeared. You were right there. Backing me up. Never asking for anything. I just...”
“Kai.”
“Let me finish.” I swallow hard, throat tight. “You're my brother. Not by blood, thank God, because my blood is poison. By choice. I took that for granted. I took you for granted.”
The bulb flickers overhead, shadows dancing.
“You're a dramatic bastard, you know that?” His voice is rough, and when he looks at me, his eyes are glassy. “Save the eulogy for when we're actually dead.”
“Is that forgiveness?”
“It's a rain check.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Buy me a beer when we get out of this. A nice one. None of that domestic shit.”
“Deal.”
The word hangs between us, fragile and fierce. A promise we don't know if we can keep.
Footsteps on the stairs. Several sets of heavy boots. We both go still.
Logan's spine straightens against the beam. My hands curl into fists behind my back, nails digging into palms.
The door opens. No matter what I told myself, nothing could have prepared me for this.
She descends like a queen entering her throne room. Cream coat, immaculate. Hair swept back without a strand out of place. Heels clicking against each metal step with the precision of a metronome.
Helena Hammond.
My mother.
Behind her, four men in tactical gear, faces blank, hands resting on holstered weapons. Mercenaries. The kind you hire when you need violence done and don't want questions asked.
Helena reaches the bottom of the stairs and stops, surveying the scene with a mild expression of distaste, like we're an inconvenience. A mess someone forgot to clean up.
“Alexander.” She says my name the way she'd greet a disappointing employee. “You're awake. Good. I was beginning to think they'd hit you too hard.”
I don't respond. I watch her move closer, her perfume reaching me before she does. Chanel No. 5. The same scent she's worn my entire life. It used to mean comfort, safety, home.
Now it makes my stomach turn.
“Nothing to say?” She tilts her head, studying me. “That's unlike you. You've always had your father's tendency for dramatics.”
“What do you want, Helena?”
Using her name instead of mother lands. I see it in the slight tightening around her eyes, the brief pause before she smooths it away.
“Straight to business. I appreciate that.” She gestures to one of the mercenaries, who steps forward with a chair.
She sits, crossing her legs, arranging herself like we're having tea.
“I want what I'm owed, Alexander. What I've earned through thirty years of smiling at your father's mistresses and pretending not to notice the lipstick on his collar. What I deserve after building the Hammond brand from nothing while Victor took all the credit.”
“So this is about money.”
“This is about power.” Her voice sharpens. “Money is just how we keep score.”
She reaches into her bag and produces a leather folder. I can guess what's inside.
“Your shares in Hammond Industries,” she confirms, opening the folder on her lap. “Fifteen percent. Not a controlling stake, but combined with what I'm about to acquire from your father, it will be.”
“Victor will never sign anything over to you.”
Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. It's a performance. I realize it always has been.
“Victor will do exactly what I tell him to do. Just like you will.”
“And if I refuse?”
Helena doesn't answer. She simply looks at one of the mercenaries and nods.
The man moves fast. He crosses to Logan, grabs a fistful of hair, slams his head back against the metal beam. The sound is sickening. A wet crack that echoes through the warehouse.
“Stop!” I lunge forward, forgetting my ankle. My leg buckles. I crash to my knees, agony shooting up from my foot.
The mercenary hits Logan again. And again. Each blow measured, precise. Logan doesn't scream, but he grunts with each impact.
“Stop it! Please, stop!”
After three more blows, she raises a hand. The mercenary steps back. Logan slumps against the beam, blood streaming from his nose, breathing labored.
“Mr. Parker,” Helena says calmly. “He's nothing to me.
A mechanic's son who somehow attached himself to my family like a barnacle.
But I understand he's important to you.” She pauses, letting that sink in.
“So let me be clear, Alexander. For every minute you delay, he suffers.
When I've run out of patience, he dies.”
The room starts spinning. I lean against the wall to stay upright, strain my wrists against the zip ties hard enough to draw blood.
“He has nothing to do with this.”
“He has everything to do with it. He's one of your weaknesses.” She leans forward, and what I see underneath is cold. Empty. A void where a heart should be. “You always were sentimental, Alexander. Just like your father.”
“What changed?”
“Julia.” The name comes out like venom. “Pregnant with his bastard while I'm supposed to smile and accept my settlement like a good little ex-wife.” She stands, smoothing her coat. “I'm done smiling.”
She spreads the documents on a crate. “Sign over your shares, and your friend lives. Refuse, and I'll have them break every bone in his body while you watch. Then I'll kill him anyway. I'll find your little toy, and I'll make sure she understands exactly what it means to cross me.”
The threat to Emma cuts through me like a blade. Vision narrows. Pulse pounding so loud I can barely hear.
“Leave her out of this!”
“When you sign.” Helena holds out a pen. “Your friend. Your girlfriend. Your money. Your pride. You can't save all of them. So which will it be?”
I look at Logan. He's watching me, one eye nearly swollen shut, blood dripping from his chin. He shakes his head slowly. Don't do it.
But I see the fear underneath. He's trying to be brave, trying to protect me, like he always has. I’m so fucking tired of people I love getting hurt because of what I am.
This is my legacy. Not the money, not the empire. This. Violence and manipulation. Using people as pawns. My mother learned it from my father, or maybe they learned it together. Now they've passed it to me like a genetic defect.
I thought I could escape it. Thought the life I was building was proof that the Hammond poison hadn't reached me.
I'm a fool.
“Pen.” My voice comes out hollow. Dead.
“Kai, don't—“ Logan starts.
One of the mercenaries backhands him, and he goes quiet.
Helena walks toward me, heels clicking, crouches down to my level. Up close, I can see the fine lines around her eyes, the slight loosening of skin at her jaw. She's aged in ways I never noticed. Or maybe I just never looked at her as a stranger.
“There's my smart boy,” she murmurs, almost tender. “I knew you'd see reason.”
She cuts my zip ties. Blood rushes back into my fingers in agonizing prickles. She sets the documents on the floor in front of me, pages fluttering slightly in some invisible draft.
I pick up the pen.
My hand is shaking. The words on the page blur and swim. Fifteen percent of Hammond Industries. My insurance policy. My leverage. The only thing that gave me power in my father's world.
I'm about to sign it away to save my best friend's life.
The worst part isn't losing the shares. It's knowing Helena was right. I'm sentimental. Weak. Exactly what Victor always feared I was. Not ruthless enough to do what's necessary. Too soft to be a true heir.
Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe being a true Hammond is the last thing I should want.
The pen feels heavy. Each letter is a surrender, a defeat, another piece of myself carved away.
When I'm done, Helena examines my signature with satisfaction.
“There.” She straightens, tucking the folder into her bag. “That wasn't so difficult, was it?”