Chapter 3
Three
Onyx
The back door of Scarlet Thorn opens into an alley that smells like garbage and piss and the particular kind of despair that accumulates in places rich people never have to see.
The cold hits me first, biting through my thin shirt after the warmth of the club, raising goosebumps along my arms and making the scratches sting fresh.
My eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness after all that red lighting, and for a few terrifying seconds I'm essentially blind, blinking into shadows that could hide anything.
The door clicks shut behind us with a heavy finality that makes my stomach clench.
“Maybe this is a bad idea.” I grab for a handle, but there’s nothing on this side of the door. No going back.
Five minutes ago I was sitting in a velvet booth surrounded by champagne and chandeliers. Now I'm standing ankle-deep in darkness that will swallow our screams.
Sloane's bare feet slap against wet concrete as she leads the way, her heels dangling from one hand, her phone clutched in the other. The flickering light above the door casts shadows that jump and twist with every movement we make.
"My car's in the garage two blocks over." She's already pulling up her rideshare app. "Or I can call an Uber. What do you think?"
"No apps. Nothing traceable." I scan the alley, my heart still hammering from the text on her phone. The shadows feel thicker out here, more dangerous. "We walk to your car. Keep our heads down. Move fast."
"Okay. Okay, yeah." She takes a breath, visibly steeling herself. "It's this way."
We make it maybe fifteen feet before I hear the footsteps behind us.
Boots strike concrete in a steady rhythm that bounces off the alley walls and settles like ice in my stomach.
My hand finds Sloane's arm and I'm about to drag her forward into a run when more footsteps reach my ears from the opposite end of the alley, cutting off our only escape route.
My stomach drops straight through the concrete.
"Stop." I grab Sloane's arm and pull her backward, my fingers digging into her skin. "Listen."
She freezes, her breath catching as the footsteps register. Her eyes dart from one end of the alley to the other, calculating, then meet mine with a fear that mirrors my own. "Please tell me those are drunk guys looking for a shortcut."
"Those aren't drunk guys looking for a shortcut."
They emerge from the shadows like they've been waiting there all along.
Because they have.
My heart forgets its job for one stuttering beat that leaves me dizzy. Then it kicks back in double-time, slamming against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my throat. My blood goes cold, my skin prickling with the ancient animal instinct that screams predator before my brain has time to catch up.
Three men from the direction we were heading. Two more blocking the way back to the club. All of them built like trucks, dressed in dark clothes, moving with the kind of coordinated precision that screams professional.
Trapped. We're trapped.
I recognize one of them. Brennan. He's been on my uncle's payroll for as long as I can remember, a fixer who handles the jobs too dirty for anyone with a conscience. He's got a scar through his left eyebrow, old and faded, and dead eyes that have never once looked at me like I'm a person.
"Ms. Malone." His voice is almost polite. Almost. "Your uncle is worried about you."
"Ha! I'll bet he is. Worried he'll lose his payday?" I position myself slightly in front of Sloane, anchoring one hand on the strap of my laptop bag and the other on her. Not that I can shield either of us against five armed men for long, but old habits die hard.
Brennan's lips twitch into a sneer. "He just wants you home safe."
"Funny definition of safe, considering he's the one who wants to sell me."
Brennan's eyebrows lift a fraction of an inch, the first genuine reaction I've seen from him. "You know about that." It's not a question.
"I know about a lot of things."
The surprise disappears as fast as it came, his face smoothing back into professional blankness. He takes a step forward, and the other men close in tighter, shrinking the space around us until I can barely breathe.
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Miss Malone. Your choice."
I snort. "How cliché of you. Did you learn that phrase in the How To Be a Hitman Resource Guide?” I shake my head. “Nah. How about a third option where you go fuck yourself?"
Okay, probably not my smartest comeback line, but I'm running on adrenaline and terror, and my mouth has always worked faster than my brain.
Brennan sighs like I've just made his day. "Hard way it is."
Everything hits fast forward after that.
The two men behind us move first, and I shove Sloane sideways just as one of them grabs for her arm.
She stumbles, catches herself against the grimy brick wall, and comes up swinging her stilettos like weapons.
The heel catches the guy across the face, and he howls, blood spraying from a gash on his cheek.
I make a mental note to never judge a girly girl by her looks. My girl can fight.
But there's no time to celebrate because Brennan is on me from behind, one arm locking around my waist like a steel band while his other hand clamps around my wrist hard enough to grind the bones together.
He yanks me backward against his chest, and I'm engulfed in cigarettes and expensive cologne, the same kind my uncle wears.
The familiarity of it makes my stomach heave.
His breath is hot against the back of my neck, his body a wall of heat I can't escape no matter how hard I fight him.
I twist, driving my elbow back into his ribs the way my self-defense instructor taught me a lifetime ago when I thought the worst thing that could happen was a handsy date.
His grip turns to iron, his fingers digging into the soft tissue of my inner wrist hard enough to leave bruises I'll wear for weeks.
If I live that long.
He grunts but doesn't let go. His grip tightens, and pain shoots up my arm like lightning.
"Stop fighting." His breath is hot against my ear. "You're only making this worse for yourself."
I grit my teeth through the pain and ground out, "Story of my life."
I stomp down hard on his instep, and his grip loosens just enough for me to wrench free. I spin, putting distance between us, and my eyes find Sloane.
She's holding her own. Barely. The guy she cut with her heel is hanging back, pressing his hand to his bleeding face, but the other one has her pinned against the wall, his forearm across her throat. Her feet kick uselessly against the concrete, her face going red as she struggles to breathe.
Okay, or maybe she isn’t too good.
I don't think. I move.
My laptop bag swings in a wide arc, all that equipment and research notes turned into a weapon, and it connects with the back of the guy's skull with a satisfying thunk.
The strap snaps on impact, the worn leather finally giving out, and the bag goes flying into the shadows near the wall where Sloane is slumped.
The guy staggers, his grip on Sloane loosening, and she gasps in a desperate breath.
"Run!" I scream at her. "Find a way back inside!"
But before she can move, the guy I hit spins around and backhands me across the face.
The sound comes first. A crack like a gunshot, ringing through the alley, bouncing off brick walls. Then the pain explodes across my cheekbone, rattling my skull. The world tilts sideways and I'm falling, nothing but air between me and the harsh concrete.
I hit the ground hard. My palms tear open on the rough surface, skin shredding against grit and small fragments of old, broken glass. The pain is sharp and bright. The taste of blood floods my mouth, hot and copper-thick, from where my teeth slammed into my tongue on impact.
For a moment I can't remember how to breathe. Can't remember how to move. Can't remember anything except the ringing in my ears and the wet warmth dripping down my chin.
I try to push myself up, but my arms won't cooperate, trembling and weak.
Through blurred vision, I see Sloane launch herself at the man standing over me. She's screaming something, words I can't make out, her fists pounding against his back. He turns, annoyed, and shoves her away like she weighs nothing.
She hits the wall with a sickening crack.
Time slows down. I watch her crumple in horrible detail, frame by frame, her body folding in on itself as she tries to catch her fall.
The sound of the bone snapping is something I will hear in my nightmares for the rest of my life. Wet and final, like a thick branch breaking underfoot. Her scream follows half a second later, ripping through the alley, raw and animal and so full of pain it makes my stomach lurch toward my throat.
Her arm. Oh god, her arm bent the wrong way when she tried to catch herself. The angle is all wrong, a zigzag where there should be a straight line, and bile surges up my esophagus so fast I have to swallow it back down.
She slides down the brick, cradling her arm against her chest, her face twisted in agony.
Blood trickles from somewhere in her hairline, matting her blonde victory rolls into a tangled mess.
Her red lipstick is smeared across her chin, and she looks so small suddenly, so broken, this woman who walked into any room like she owned it.
I did this. I brought this to her door.
"Sloane!" I try to crawl toward her, but hands grab me from behind, hauling me up onto my knees. "Sloane, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"
"Enough." Brennan's voice cuts through my panic. He crouches down in front of me, and I notice he's not even breathing hard. Like this is just another Tuesday for him. Like breaking women is routine. "Your friend will live. Probably. Depends on how fast someone finds her."
"You son of a bitch—"
"Save it." He stands, nodding to one of his men. "Package her up. The plane leaves in two hours."
Plane? What plane? The auction isn't until Saturday. Unless—