20. Greer
GREER
The Pennsylvania warehouse job goes off perfectly.
We torch fifteen million in product, leave Chisom a very clear message about consequences, and make it back to Jersey by dawn with zero casualties.
Zaria's crew is energized, riding the high of striking back after days of getting hit.
Even Cain admits my intelligence was solid.
But Chisom doesn't fold like we hoped. Instead, he escalates.
More hits over the next three days—smaller operations, testing our defenses, keeping us scrambling. Then the message comes through Marco again: meet at the old factory on Riverside, midnight Friday, or the attacks continue.
"It's still a trap," I tell Zaria for the third time as we finalize plans Thursday night.
"I know." She's checking her weapons with mechanical precision. "That's why we're not playing by his rules."
The plan is solid. Zaria goes in appearing to be alone while Cain, Lex, and I position ourselves in three separate locations around the factory. We'll have eyes on every entrance, exit, and approach. The second Chisom makes his move, we converge and end this.
"Stay on comms," Cain tells me, adjusting the small earpiece. "Don't be a hero. If shit goes sideways, you call it in and wait for backup."
"Got it." I check my Glock—Hayes's spare that he gave me months ago, now feeling comfortable in my grip.
We split up two hours before midnight. I take position in an abandoned apartment building across from the factory's east entrance, third floor with clear sightlines. The rifle Cain loaned me sits ready on the windowsill, scope already calibrated.
Through the earpiece, I hear Zaria's steady breathing as she approaches in her Challenger. Cain reports from his position on the south side. Lex confirms the north entrance is clear.
"I'm going in," Zaria says.
My pulse kicks up but I force myself to stay calm. This is the plan. She walks in, draws them out, we take them when they're exposed.
The factory is a gutted shell—broken windows, rusted metal framework, collapsed sections of roof letting in moonlight. I watch Zaria's silhouette move through the main entrance, small and alone in that vast space.
"Visual confirmed," I murmur. "She's in the central area, no movement yet."
"Copy," Cain responds. "Stay sharp."
Minutes tick by. Zaria stands in the middle of the factory floor, hands at her sides, waiting. The moonlight through the broken roof casts her in silver, and even from this distance I can see the tension in her shoulders.
"Something's wrong," Lex says quietly. "It's too quiet."
He's right. If this was an ambush, they should have moved by now. Okafor wants Zaria isolated and vulnerable—why wait?
Unless they're waiting for something else.
The thought crystallizes just as I hear footsteps in the hallway behind me.
I spin, bringing the rifle up, but there are already three men in the doorway. I recognize one from surveillance photos—Okafor crew, mid-level enforcers.
"Drop it," the lead one says, his own gun already aimed at my chest.
My mind races through options. The rifle is too slow for close quarters. My Glock is holstered at my hip. Three against one, weapons drawn, no cover.
I drop the rifle.
"Smart." He gestures to my hip. "Now the pistol. Slow."
I reach for it with careful movements, but instead of dropping it, I dive left and fire. The shot catches the lead enforcer in the shoulder, spinning him back. I'm already moving, rolling behind a support beam as return fire explodes around me.
"Greer's compromised, east building!" I shout into the comm. "Multiple hostiles?—"
A boot catches me in the ribs before I can finish, knocking the air from my lungs. I twist, bringing my elbow up into someone's jaw, feeling the satisfying crunch of contact. Someone else grabs my gun arm and I headbutt them, their nose breaking under my forehead.
My training kicks in—keep moving, use their numbers against them, create space. I throw a knee into the closest gut, hear the grunt of pain, follow with a punch that drops him.
But there are more than three. Four more spill through the doorway, and I realize with cold clarity that this was planned. They knew where I'd be positioned. They've been waiting.
A traitor. Someone on our crew told them exactly where we'd be.
I manage to put two more down before sheer numbers overwhelm me. A punch catches my temple, making my vision spark. Another hits my kidney, dropping me to one knee. I fight like Cain taught me—dirty, efficient, targeting weak points—but there are too many and they're not trying to kill me.
They're trying to capture me.
That realization comes right before something hard cracks across the back of my skull and the world tilts sideways. I hit the floor, tasting blood, ears ringing. Hands grab my arms, yanking them behind my back. Zip ties cut into my wrists.
"Get him up."
They haul me to my feet. My vision swims, but through the earpiece I can hear chaos—Zaria shouting, gunfire, Cain yelling coordinates. They're hitting the factory from multiple angles, just like we planned, except now they don't know I'm already taken.
Someone rips the earpiece from my ear and crushes it under their boot.
"Move."
They drag me down the stairs, out a back exit, and throw me into a van. My head cracks against the metal floor and everything goes hazy for a moment. When I focus again, we're already moving, and a woman's face comes into view above me.
Dark skin, cold eyes, expensive suit. I recognize her from the files—Ezinne Okafor, Chisom's sister.
"Hello, Greer." Her voice is cultured, almost pleasant. "You're probably wondering why we went to all this trouble."
I don't answer, too busy trying to assess my situation. Hands zip-tied behind my back, blood running from my temple, surrounded by at least four men in a moving vehicle. My Glock is gone, comm is destroyed, and Zaria thinks I'm still in position at the east building.
"The meeting was never about Zaria," Zin continues. "Oh, Chisom's there making a show of negotiating, keeping her busy. But you—" She crouches down, her face inches from mine. "You're the real target. The weakness we can exploit."
"I'm nobody," I manage. My mouth tastes like copper.
"You're nobody who burned fifteen million of our product in Pennsylvania.
Nobody who's been feeding Zaria intelligence on our operations.
Nobody who somehow knew about our community gym plans before we executed them.
" Her smile is sharp. "You're not just Zaria's boyfriend—you're her strategist. The brain behind her recent successes. "
She's not wrong, and we both know it. The Pennsylvania raid worked because of my research. The gym protection succeeded because of my prediction. Zaria's been hitting above her weight class because I've been giving her advantages she didn't have before.
"So we do what warriors have done for centuries," Zin says. "We take away her advantage. We break her weapon. And then we watch her crumble."
The van hits a pothole and pain lances through my skull. I force myself to stay conscious, to catalog details. Four men plus Zin. We're heading east based on the turns, away from the factory. Probably twenty minutes have passed since capture.
We pull into another warehouse—they really love warehouses—and they drag me out. This one is smaller, more isolated, no broken windows for moonlight. Just industrial overhead lights that burn my concussed eyes.
They tie me to a chair in the center of the space. Not zip ties this time—actual rope, thick and professional, the kind that doesn't give no matter how you twist. My wrists scream where the zip ties cut circulation before they removed them.
"Comfortable?" Zin pulls up another chair, sitting across from me.
"Cozy." I spit blood onto the concrete. "Interior decorator could use some work though."
She laughs, genuinely amused. "Zaria said you had a mouth on you. I like that. Men who can banter while bleeding are either very brave or very stupid."
"Why not both?"
"Indeed." She leans forward. "Here's how this works, Greer. You're going to tell me everything about Zaria's operations—her supply chains, her distribution networks, her remaining product locations, her crew's structure. You're going to give me every advantage you've been giving her."
"Not a chance."
"I thought you'd say that." She stands, nodding to one of her men. "That's fine. We have time."
The first punch catches me across the jaw, snapping my head sideways.
The second hits my ribs where I'm already bruised from the earlier fight.
I've been beaten before—Dylan proved I could survive that—but this is different.
These are professionals who know exactly how much damage to inflict without killing.
"Distribution networks," Zin says calmly. "Start with the eastern routes."
I don't answer. Can't answer even if I wanted to, because I'm too busy trying to breathe through the pain in my ribs.
Another punch, this one to my stomach. The air leaves my lungs in a rush and I double over as much as the ropes allow, gagging.
"You're not special, Greer." Zin's voice remains pleasant. "You're a marketing analyst who stumbled into a world you don't understand. You're playing at being dangerous, but you're just a civilian with delusions."
She's trying to break me psychologically the way Dylan tried to break me physically. Making me feel small and helpless and out of my depth.
But she's wrong about one thing—I'm not playing at being dangerous. I am dangerous, not because of the violence I can inflict but because of what I know, what I can do with information and strategy. That's why they took me. That's why this matters.
And I'll die before I give her what she wants.
"Go to hell," I manage.
The beating continues. They're methodical about it, working my body systematically—ribs, stomach, face, anywhere that hurts without killing. I lose track of time, everything blurring into pain and the taste of blood and Zin's calm voice asking questions I refuse to answer.
At some point they stop and step back. I hang in the chair, barely conscious, every breath agony.
"You're tougher than you look," Zin admits. "I'll give you that. But Greer—" She crouches in front of me again, forcing my head up to meet her eyes. "This is just the beginning. We have days. Weeks if necessary. Eventually you'll break. Everyone breaks."
"Not everyone." The words come out slurred but defiant.
"No?" She stands. "Let me tell you what's happening right now. Zaria is at that factory, probably still fighting Chisom's crew. When she realizes you're gone, she'll panic. She'll make mistakes. She'll expose herself trying to find you."
She's not wrong. Zaria will absolutely tear Jersey apart looking for me.
"And when she finally tracks you here," Zin continues, "she'll walk right into our trap.
She'll trade herself for you because that's what people in love do—they make stupid, emotional decisions.
" Her smile is cruel. "So really, you lasting longer just means Zaria has more time to destroy herself trying to save you.
The faster you break, the less she suffers. "
The logic is twisted but effective. She's trying to make me feel guilty for resisting, like my defiance is hurting Zaria.
But I know Zaria better than Zin does. Zaria won't trade herself for me. She'll come for me with Cain and Lex and whatever crew she can mobilize, and they'll hit this place like a hurricane. My job isn't to break—it's to survive long enough for her to find me.
And to that end, I need to stay conscious, stay aware, look for any weakness I can exploit.
I catalog details through the haze of pain.
Five people total in the warehouse—Zin and four enforcers.
The chair I'm tied to is metal, bolted to the floor.
The ropes are thick nylon, professionally tied.
My hands have gone partially numb from restricted circulation.
There's a door to my left about twenty feet away, probably leading outside.
Another door to my right, likely an office or storage room.
The overhead lights create shadows in the corners. No windows that I can see, which means we're either in a basement or a windowless structure. The floor is concrete, stained with old oil or blood or both.
"Nothing to say?" Zin asks.
"Your brother should've quit while he was ahead," I tell her. My voice sounds wrecked. "Burning that Pennsylvania warehouse? That was just us getting started."
She hits me herself this time, her knuckles connecting with my already swollen cheekbone. Stars explode across my vision.
"You have no idea what you've walked into," she hisses. "Chisom has been building his empire for a decade. Your little girlfriend is a child playing at being Malcolm Bennett. When we're done, there won't be anything left of the Bennett name except a cautionary tale."
"You talk a lot for someone who had to kidnap me instead of facing Zaria directly."
Wrong thing to say. Zin's eyes flash with rage and she nods to her enforcers. "Break his fingers. One at a time. Maybe physical pain will teach him when to shut his mouth."
Fear spikes through me, real and visceral, because broken fingers mean permanent damage, mean not being able to fight even if I get free.
The first enforcer grabs my left hand, finding my index finger. I try to pull away but the ropes hold me completely immobile.
"Last chance," Zin says. "Eastern distribution routes. Give me names and locations."
I meet her eyes, thinking of Zaria's face, her fierce determination, the way she calls me her good boy when I do something that pleases her. I think of Cain teaching me to fight, of Hayes giving me the tools to survive this world, of Lilah's terrified face telling me I'm choosing wrong.
But I'm not choosing wrong. I'm choosing Zaria, and that means protecting what's hers even when it costs me.
"No."
The enforcer applies pressure and my finger bends at an angle it's not meant to go. The pain is white-hot, consuming, and I can't stop the scream that tears from my throat as something cracks.
Through the agony, I hear Zin's satisfied voice. "Nine more fingers to go. Then we'll start on toes. Then kneecaps. We have all night, Greer. How long can you last?"
My finger throbs with sickening intensity. I can't see it, but I can feel the wrongness, the damage. The enforcer moves to my middle finger.
And somewhere in Jersey, Zaria is about to realize I'm gone.
Hold on, I think through the pain. Just hold on until she finds you.
The second finger begins to bend.