49. Chapter 49
SEAN
DARKNESS IS A FUNNY THING. You'd think after years in the military doing midnight extractions and then all the late-night security gigs that I'd be used to the disorienting void of darkness. But the suffocating black bag over my head is something else.
The vehicle jerks to a halt, tires crunching on what sounds like gravel.
My shoulders ache from being wrenched behind me, zip ties biting into my wrists like tiny, persistent teeth.
The air in the SUV has grown stale with the mingled scents of leather, sweat, and the metallic tang of what I can only assume is dried blood. Not mine. Yet.
The door opens next to me. "Out."
Large hands grab my arm as one of Victor's men yanks me from the vehicle. He smells like cigars. His meaty fingers dig into my bicep as he hauls me from the backseat like I'm nothing more than luggage.
My boot heels scrape against rough terrain.
I clench my jaw from the throbbing pain in my ankle as the man forces me to keep up with his pace.
I take inventory of my surroundings through every sense except sight.
There's the distant hum of industrial machinery.
The acrid burn of chemicals. The whistle of wind through a vast, open space.
Somewhere nearby, metal screeches against metal like the sounds of manufacturing equipment.
Getting here by calling Victor had been easy enough.
The temporary number he'd given me, the one I was supposed to call after a successful mission, was answered on the first ring.
I told the guy I needed to speak with Victor because I had something he wanted.
That's all it took and the wheels were in motion.
Eight hours later, I arrived at the Chicago O'Hare Airport and Victor's men picked me up and gave me my wonderful accessories.
I'm now walking into what any rational person would call certain death.
The goon shoves me forward. Gravel transitions to concrete, the temperature dropping as we move from outside to in.
The acoustics change. Sounds bounce off distant walls, suggesting a cavernous interior space.
The chemical smell intensifies, layered now with familiar scents that tickle the back of my brain: gunpowder and metal and machine oil.
A weapons manufacturing facility, or maybe a distribution warehouse.
We pass through another threshold and a door slams shut behind us. The zip ties around my wrists are severed with a quick flick of what must be a knife. Blood rushes back into my fingers, bringing with it a parade of needles marching beneath my skin.
"Stand still," the guy grunts, and then the bag is yanked off my head.
The sudden brightness is an assault. I blink rapidly and my eyes water as they struggle to adjust. White spots dance in my vision, gradually changing into shapes and then details.
I'm in a small room with concrete walls and a single overhead light that feels like it's drilling straight into my skull.
The space is sparse with just a metal table pushed against one wall, its surface gleaming with an array of tools that belong in a medieval torture chamber.
There are knives of various sizes. Pliers.
Something that resembles a cattle prod. A blowtorch.
I try not to think about how the blowtorch is used.
The entire room reeks of industrial bleach, the kind of chemical cleaner used to erase evidence and someone's existence.
Victor stands across from me in a black suit. His small frame somehow fills the space with the sheer density of his presence. Two hulking men flank him like twin gargoyles; their faces carved from the same expressionless stone.
I don't need to check behind me to know that the goon who brought me in is blocking the only exit.
I do it anyway, a quick glance confirming what I already knew.
No windows. No alternative escape routes.
Just four walls, five men, and an assortment of instruments designed to extract confessions one scream at a time.
Victor studies me with those empty eyes—two black holes that swallow light. His expression reveals nothing. There's no anger, no satisfaction, not even the mild curiosity you might show an insect before crushing it beneath your heel.
"Alan is dead."
Okay, his voice reveals something: simmering rage.
"I'm assuming you're here to plead your case and tell me it was an accident?" he adds. "That you arrived, the women were already free, and they killed him."
I straighten my spine, ignoring how my muscles are already bracing for impact. This is it, the moment where everything changes. Where I either talk my way out of this room or die trying.
"No," I say with a level tone. "I'm owning the events that led up to it. It's my fault he's dead." I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch. "I knew running from you would be stupid, so I'm here to face the consequences."
Men like Victor hear excuses the way most people breathe air: constantly, inevitably, without really noticing anymore. What they don't get often is the truth or respect shown through honesty rather than groveling.
Victor is evil incarnate—a black hole where a human being should be—but right now, playing by his rules is the only card I have left. And the rule is simple: truth or death.
A slight eyebrow twitch finally cracks Victor's face. It's not quite surprise, but maybe the suggestion of it. It's a ripple in the perfect stillness of a predator's focus.
"Hmm." The sound bounces around this death chamber. "Most men try to run from their fates, so I can respect that you're here to face yours."
I nod once. "I came to offer—"
Victor lifts a hand, palm out, and the words die in my throat. He doesn't need to raise his voice and he doesn't need to threaten me. His smallest movement is a command that expects immediate obedience.
He tips his chin slightly toward the gargoyles, and they move. One steps left, the other right, then they're on me.
The first blow catches me just below the ribs and something cracks. The air is forced from my lungs in an explosive rush. The second punch connects with my kidney, sending shockwaves of pain radiating outward.
I don't fight back. Fighting would signal disrespect, and disrespect would mean instant death. Instead, I let myself fold where their fists direct me, accepting each blow as payment for a debt I owe.
Another strike cracks across my jaw. Copper floods my mouth as my teeth slice into the soft flesh of my cheek. My knees buckle, but I don't fall. Not yet.
The next hit takes that choice away.
A boot connects with my sternum as I fold toward the concrete floor. My face scrapes against the rough cement. White-hot pain blooms across my ribcage with each shallow breath. I think two ribs are cracked now.
These guys are pretty efficient at what they do.
A goon moves in for a kick to my kidneys, boot already swinging in an arc, when Victor's voice slices through the room.
"Enough."
One word, and the violence evaporates. These men are so perfectly trained they can turn brutality on and off like a faucet. The realization chills me more than the concrete beneath my cheek.
"Stand up."
Blood is spilling from my mouth and each breath is a lung full of daggers. For a moment, I think I might puke, adding one more bodily fluid to whatever this floor has absorbed over the years. But I swallow it down—the nausea, the pain, the urge to stay curled in a protective ball.
I push myself up. One elbow, then the other. Knees beneath me. One foot planted. Finally, I'm standing.
The room tilts and spins but I force myself upright, shoulders back, chin level. No weakness. Not here. Not now. My left eye is already swelling shut. Blood is smeared on my face, but I resist the urge to wipe it away. Let it flow. Let him see what I can take.
Victor studies me, which is exactly what I want. I need him to see the value in what I'm about to offer.
His head tilts half an inch, the gesture birdlike. "You've caused me a lot of problems with my supply chains. It won't be easy to replace Alan. He was well-connected and always met deadlines. I told you, I hate training new men."
I meet his gaze steadily. "I know."
"Yet you still failed."
"Yes."
Victor snaps his fingers and one of the gargoyles steps forward with a manila folder. He hands it to me. As I reach for it, Victor says, "You must not care much for your friends."
His tone makes my knees want to buckle. I open the folder with clumsy fingers. The photos inside cause me more pain than the beating I just endured.
I don't want to look at them, but I force myself.
Mike.
The photos are the story of his demise. The beating. The dismemberment. The way they sunk the pieces of his body in the ocean.
Seeing his last moments is a torment that smashes through me like a wrecking ball, shattering whatever composure I've managed to maintain. I sway back a step as the images blur behind tears.
All Mike wanted was to support his family. He talked about his kids with such pride. He loved his wife with a passion that made me believe in something better. He was loyal and dedicated and brave.
He took on this job because of me.
Dead because of me.
I didn't pull the trigger on Miller, but I might as well have. I set everything in motion. I failed to stop it. And Mike paid the price.
I force air into my lungs and don't let the tears fall. I drop the pictures and clear my throat. "His family?"
"My men are in position." Victor's voice is distant through the roaring in my ears. "We haven't located the actress yet, but we will. Wherever you hid her." He pauses, observing how I'm handling his revelations.
Londyn is still safe. Thank you, God. But Mike's family… his pregnant wife… his children…
"The only reason I haven't killed them all is I'm curious what you have to say," Victor continues. "Why you thought it was important enough to take up more of my time. I can't possibly imagine what you think you have as a bargaining chip."
I gather what remains of my strength, what fragments of resolve haven't been shattered by those photos. I push forward for the sake of everyone whose lives hang in the balance. "Well, Alan was a rich asshole. I don't regret that he's dead."
Victor merely blinks.
"Plenty of rich assholes can take his place. Hopefully the next one stays focused on work instead of women." I straighten, ignoring the sharp protest of my ribs. "This situation may turn out better for you in the end, but that's not what I came here to say."
Another blink.
"My point is, Alan is replaceable, like all rich assholes are. But there are only a few people in the world with my particular set of skills and experience."
No blink this time. I have his attention.
"I'm nobody. Someone you can kill and instantly forget. In that regard, I don't matter. But what I can do for you does matter."
Victor's gaze doesn't waver but something shifts. There's a charged, dangerous energy radiating off him that could tip either way.
"I owe you a favor," I press on. "Let Mike's family live. Forget about Londyn. And I'll pay my debt. Whenever you need me. Whatever you need done." I hold his gaze, unflinching. "You'll have my skills at your disposal."
The seconds stretch as Victor considers my offer. The room seems to inhale with me, though each breath is weaker since all oxygen is getting sucked into the vacuum of his silence. The gargoyles stand motionless, waiting for a command.
Finally, Victor extends his hand to one of his men, who places a knife in his palm. My muscles tense, preparing for more pain.
He approaches slowly, like a panther. When he's close enough for me to smell the bitter tang of his cologne, he raises the blade toward my chest.
I don't move.
I don't flinch.
He's either going to kill me or…
With one swift motion, he slices through my shirt, exposing my chest. He presses the blade to my skin, just above my left pectoral. I try not to react as he cuts me deep enough to draw blood and leave a scar. The pain is sharp but I don't break eye contact. I stare right into the eyes of the devil.
When he's done, there's a 'V' carved into my flesh.
"This debt will be paid," he says, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "You belong to me until it is." He wipes the blade clean on a handkerchief he pulls from his suit pocket. "Fail again, and there are no more chances. The women and the children die. Understood?"
I nod once, the movement sending fresh pain radiating from my eye socket.
"I don't have use for you at the moment." He hands the handkerchief and the blade to his man on the right. "But I will. When I call, you'll answer."
"Yes."
Victor gives a subtle nod to his men. One moves behind me while another approaches with zip ties and the black bag.
"Until next time, Mr. Walker-Choi."
The world disappears behind black fabric. Rough hands once again secure my wrists. I'm guided—or more accurately, shoved—toward the door. I'm led through the warehouse, or whatever this building is, back into the cool night air. Into the waiting vehicle.
The drive to the airport is a haze of pain and grief and something darker than I've ever felt. My Marine brother. His smile, his Dad jokes, his loyalty… gone.
Another person I…
My cheeks are wet beneath the bag. I shed silent tears for a friend who deserved better than to die because of my mistakes. But even as grief threatens to drown me, a small ember of relief burns in my chest.
Londyn is safe. Mike's family is safe.
For now.
When Victor calls—and he will call—I won't fail again. The stakes are too high, the cost too monumental. My family is at stake. My child. My future.
I've given my life to save them and I won't let it be in vain.
I choke on tears. What a fucking situation. I spent years fighting against the evil men of this world, the ones who create violence, who profit from fear, who force others into impossible choices. And now I'm chained to one of them, another weapon in his arsenal, another tool for his empire.
The cycle continues, unbroken. And I'm trapped.
But not forever.
There's one thing I don't think a man like Victor could ever understand: having someone to fight for.
When you have that, you're never truly beaten. Not while there's still breath in your body and your heart still beats.
I may be Victor's for now, but someday—somehow—I will be free.
When that day comes, I'll walk back to Londyn and our child with clean hands and a future that belongs only to us.