Chapter 6
six
Sabin’s pinky snapped like a matchstick, the crack echoing off concrete walls as white-hot pain surged up his arm.
He screamed — raw and unfiltered — because why the hell not?
It wasn’t like biting it back would impress his captors, and if they wanted him to beg, they’d be waiting a long time.
The guard twisted the broken finger just enough to send another lightning bolt of agony through him, punishment for the smart remark Sabin couldn’t resist making.
Some people stress-ate. Him, he stress-quipped, even when it earned him broken bones.
“You know,” he gasped, “there are easier ways to tell me you didn’t like my joke.”
The guard — a mountain with tactical gear and a black mask — didn’t respond. Just grabbed his ring finger next. The pressure built slowly, like the bastard was savoring it.
“Wait—” It was too late. The second snap came with a burst of nausea that rolled through him like a wave. He threw his head back, teeth bared, a sound tearing from his throat that didn’t sound human even to his own ears.
The guard released his hand and stepped back, satisfied.
Sabin slumped in the chair, sweat beading his forehead, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs.
Two down. Eight fingers to go. At this rate, he’d be lucky if he could still hold a lock pick when — if — he got out of here.
When. Not if. He couldn’t start thinking in ifs.
He took several shallow breaths and forced himself to look at his hand.
His pinky bent at an unnatural angle, already swelling, turning the sickening purple-blue of a deep bruise.
The ring finger was worse, the bone misaligned enough that it created a visible bump under the skin.
The pain radiated in steady pulses, bright as a beacon.
Pain was information, not crisis. That’s what his father always taught him.
Information about what was damaged, what needed fixing, what could still function.
He systematically flexed each of his remaining fingers on his left hand.
Index and middle still worked. Thumb moved but sent fire shooting through his wrist. His right hand was zip-tied to the chair but otherwise intact.
“Let me guess,” he said to the impassive guard. “You were the kid who pulled wings off flies.”
The guard turned without a word and strode to the door, heavy boots echoing on concrete. He left without looking back, the door clanging with a metallic finality that reminded Sabin of every prison cell he’d ever been in. And he’d been in a few.
But this place was different. Not a prison — a black site. Somewhere Praetorian could make people disappear. Somewhere no one would hear screams.
Sabin closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the metal chair, which was bolted to the floor like they expected him to Hulk out and throw it through a wall.
The zip ties bit into his wrists and ankles, secure enough that he’d have to break his own thumbs to slip free.
Not an option now, with his left hand already partially wrecked.
How long had he been here? Three days? Four?
The windowless room made it impossible to track time.
The harsh fluorescent light never turned off, disrupting any sense of day and night.
They fed him sporadically — sometimes what felt like hours apart, sometimes after what must have been an entire day.
He’d mapped every crack in the ceiling. Counted the tiles on the floor — thirty-six. Memorized the pattern of rust stains on the door. One looked like Florida, if Florida had an extra peninsula sticking out of the panhandle.
He needed to stay sharp. Needed to hold onto the parts of himself that made him Jean-Sabin Cavalier: reformed thief, brother, smartass. The easiest way to break someone wasn’t physical pain — it was stealing their sense of self.
So he ran through old jobs in his head, like fingering rosary beads.
The Louvre — that gorgeous Monet that now hung in some Russian oligarch’s private collection.
He’d moved through the museum’s ventilation system while Vivi charmed the security guard.
He’d been twenty-two, Vivi only twenty, and it had been their first major score.
Monte Carlo — the emerald necklace that had required a water approach, diving from a speedboat at midnight and swimming beneath the yacht where the owner’s trophy wife wore it to a party. He’d picked the stateroom lock while dripping wet, barefoot on white carpet.
Mais, what a rush that had been. Almost as good as sex. Almost.
Hong Kong — the jade figurine, small enough to fit in his palm, valuable enough to buy a small island.
That one had been dicey. The building’s security had been updated since their intel gathering phase.
He’d improvised an exit through a construction zone next door, leaping from scaffolding while alarms blared behind him.
Istanbul.
His breath caught.
Istanbul had changed everything.
He remembered Vivi’s face when they realized the job had gone sideways.
The Turkish National Police surrounding the compound while they were still inside Sokolov’s vault, the collection already bagged and ready to move.
The raw panic in her eyes when she understood what he was about to do, the way she’d grabbed his arm so hard her nails left half-moons in his skin.
“Sabin, no.”
He’d looked at Dom. One second, maybe two. Get her out of here, mon ami.
Dom’s jaw tightened — he saw it, understood it, hated it—but he’d pulled her away just as they had planned.
Then Sabin stepped into the corridor, put himself between the tunnel entrance and the sound of boots on stone.
Behind him, he heard Vivi. “Don’t you dare.”
Then Dom’s voice, low and hard, saying her name.
Then the sounds of her fighting — she always fought, his sister, even when there was nothing left to fight for — and Dom’s footsteps moving away fast, her voice getting farther away.
The last thing he’d heard before the police took him down was her screaming his name into the dark.
His chest ached at the memory. His p'tite s?ur, screaming for him in the dark.
They had her now. That’s what the guard with the Napoleon complex had told him yesterday while backhanding him hard enough to split his lip. They had Vivi. And Dom, too, because the bastard had been with her when they grabbed her.
She wasn’t alone in this.
And that—that was the only thing that kept him from completely losing hope.
Because Dom might be a lot of things—reckless, impulsive, overprotective to the point of being controlling—but he was also absolutely lethal.
When it came to Vivi, he had no qualms about doing whatever it took to protect her.
He'd burn the world down to keep her safe if he had to. Mais oui. That much, Sabin knew.
Sabin shifted in the chair, trying to find a position that didn’t send fresh waves of pain through his broken fingers. There was none. Even the slight movement of air from the ventilation system above made his hand throb.
Focus.
He needed to focus.
The guards. He’d been watching them carefully, cataloging their patterns and behaviors. Looking for the weak link. Not for escape—at least not yet—but for information. The more he knew about his captors, the better his chances.
Most of them were like robots. Faceless, silent, completely unresponsive to his attempts at engagement. Whether they were sociopaths who didn’t care, or just well-trained enough not to react, he couldn’t tell. They barely registered as human.
But one was different.
The tall one. The quiet one with the steady hands who brought him water yesterday when the others didn’t bother.
Who had hesitated, almost imperceptibly, when ordered to hit him during that first interrogation.
Who hadn’t asked a single question or made a single sound the entire time Sabin had been here.
The lock clunked open, and he lifted his head. Speak of the devil.
The guard entered alone, carrying a tray with a plastic cup of water and what looked like a sandwich.
He moved with a fluid grace that spoke of extensive training.
Military, probably. Special forces, even.
The kind of movement you couldn’t fake or learn quickly—the kind that came from years of conditioning your body to be a weapon.
“I didn’t order room service, cher,” Sabin said, his voice hoarse from screaming.
The guard set the tray on the small metal table bolted to the floor and turned to face him. Still silent. Still masked. But something about the way he stood—slightly angled, as if he didn’t want the camera in the corner to get a clear view of him—sparked Sabin’s interest.
“I’d tip, but I’m a little tied up at the moment.” He nodded toward his bound wrists. “Though I’m guessing you don’t need the cash. Praetorian probably pays well.”
Nothing. Not even a shift in stance.
“Or maybe it’s not about the money. Maybe it’s ideology. You believe in the cause.”
Nothing. Still no response.
“Or maybe they have something on you. Leverage. Someone you care about.”
The guard moved then—the smallest flinch, barely perceptible if Sabin hadn’t been looking for it.
Bingo.
“That’s it, isn’t it? They’re holding someone over you.” His mouth had gone dry, but he kept talking. If there was one thing he was good at, it was talking. “I get it. I do. That’s why I’m here. They have my sister.”
The guard turned abruptly, heading for the door.
“Wait.” He twisted in his chair, and pain flared through his hand at the sudden movement. He had to swallow back a surge of bile before he could speak again. “I’m not asking for help. I’m just—I’m just talking. Human to human. If that’s what we both still are.”
The guard paused, hand on the door.
“Just tell me if she’s okay. My sister. Vivianna. Blonde, about 5’10”, probably giving everyone hell. Is she hurt? That’s all I want to know.”
The guard stood motionless for a long moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.
No. Vivi wasn’t hurt.
Relief crashed through Sabin so powerfully that it left him lightheaded. Or maybe that was the pain. Yeah, definitely the pain. He was going to pass out soon. He wouldn’t be able to stop it. Already, gray dots crowded his vision.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
The guard tapped two fingers against the door frame—a gesture so casual and human it felt out of place in this sterile hell—and then he was gone, the door closing behind him.
Sabin slumped in his restraints. So there was still a person in there. Someone who could be reached, maybe. Someone who might, under the right circumstances, be an ally. Or at least less of an enemy.
Hours passed. Or minutes. It was impossible to tell. The pain in his hand had settled into a steady, throbbing rhythm that matched his heartbeat. His thoughts drifted, fuzzy from lack of sleep and the remnants of whatever drugs they’d given him during that last interrogation.
He was on the edge of unconsciousness when the door opened again. The same tall guard entered, this time with another tray of medical supplies. Bandages, splints, antiseptic.
Sabin blinked, trying to clear his vision. “Don’t tell me you’re going to fix what your buddy broke.”
The guard set the tray down and knelt in front of Sabin. Up close, he was even taller, maybe even close to Sabin’s towering height. Broad shoulders, muscular build. The kind of guy who’d be intimidating even without the tactical gear and the gun holstered at his hip.
“Not a talker, huh?” Sabin said as the guard gently took hold of his damaged hand. “That’s okay. I talk enough for both of us.”
The guard worked in silence, splinting the broken fingers with practiced efficiency. His touch was clinical but not rough. The kind of hands that had done this before, maybe on a battlefield somewhere.
“You were military, yeah? Special forces. Too skilled for regular army. SEALs, maybe?”
The guard tensed slightly.
“Okay not the SEALs. Ranger?” Sabin winced as the guard wrapped the splint tight. “You know, I have a friend who was a Ranger. Mais, ‘friend’ is a complicated word. He’s dating my sister—or was, before everything went to hell. Dom Wilde. You know him?”
Something about the name made the guard’s hands falter. Just for a moment. Barely noticeable. But Sabin noticed everything.
“You do know him.”
The guard finished with the splint and reached for the antiseptic, dabbing it on the cut at Sabin’s temple from yesterday’s interrogation. His mask had shifted slightly with his movements, revealing just a sliver of skin above the neckline of his tactical shirt.
A tattoo. The edge of something black inked into skin.
Sabin squinted, trying to make it out in the harsh fluorescent light. A raven? No, a wing. Part of a larger design that disappeared beneath the shirt.
“The Wilde family has enough connections to burn Praetorian to the ground,” Sabin said quietly. “If you’re thinking about which side to be on when this all ends, that’s worth remembering.”
The guard stiffened. For the first time since he’d entered the room, he looked directly at Sabin. Through the narrow eye slits in the mask, Sabin caught a flash of piercing blue.
Familiar blue.
The guard finished cleaning the cut and gathered the medical supplies. As he stood, his mask shifted again—just enough.
Sabin’s heart stopped.
That jawline. The shape of those eyes. The way he moved.
It couldn’t be.
The guard turned to leave, but Sabin’s voice stopped him.
“Brennan?”
The guard froze.
“Brennan Wilde?”
The world tilted sideways. Because it was impossible. Brennan Wilde was dead. Killed on an op two years ago. The entire Wilde family had mourned him. Dom had been devastated. Cade had gone off the deep end.
Cade.
That was it.
It had to be.
Cade Wilde, who’d betrayed his family and joined Praetorian. The resemblance between Cade and Brennan had always been uncanny—they’d looked more like twins than just brothers. The same Wilde blue eyes, the same dark hair, copper skin, and strong jaw.
It was Cade.
Mais, it had to be Cade.
But as the guard strode from the room, Sabin’s certainty wavered. The height was wrong. The movement was wrong. Cade had always been broader in the shoulders, heavier in his step.
And that tattoo.
Brennan had gotten it after a mission gone wrong in Syria. A phoenix rising. “From the ashes,” he’d said, drunk on tequila and adrenaline, showing it to Sabin and Dom at some dive bar in Virginia. “Like us. We always rise.”
Sabin’s head swam, his vision graying at the edges. Too little food. Too little sleep. Too much pain. His broken fingers throbbed in time with his racing heart, and the room seemed to spin around him.
It was Cade.
It had to be Cade.
He repeated it to himself like a mantra as consciousness slipped away.
Cade.
Not Brennan.
Because Brennan was dead.