Externally, I maintained the illusion of collapse while my internal systems hummed with readiness.
Showtime.
The warehouse door groaned open, scraping against runners. Bright light from outside cut through the gloom, making me squint through my swollen eye. The doorway blazed white for a moment before my vision adjusted.
The footsteps stopped outside the circle of harsh light from the overhead bulb. Clever positioning. They could see me clearly while staying hidden in the shadows. It was a textbook intimidation setup, probably learned from some corporate security manual.
Let them think they're in control.
They wanted me to crack first, begging for answers and showing the kind of psychological breakdown that should follow a beating. It was standard prisoner psychology.
I lifted my head slowly, letting dried blood crack at the corner of my mouth. I made sure they could see the damage done to my face. Give them a moment to appreciate their handiwork.
Then I spoke, my voice rough but steady: "You're late."
Two words that flipped their script. Not pleading or desperate—only mild professional irritation. Like they'd missed a scheduled appointment.
React to that, asshole.
The figure stepped into partial light, and my blood turned to ice. I knew that scar along the jawline, the way the left shoulder sat slightly higher than the right. Someone I'd trusted. Someone who'd eaten at the same table and shared the same safehouses.
He moved like someone trained by the same men who taught me. He'd watched me vanish, and he came back wearing their leash.
My stomach curdled—not from fear, but the kind of disappointment that rewrites everything you thought was true.
Ercan. Alive. The nineteen-year-old I delivered to Hoyle.
Chapter seventeen
Matthew
My palm trembled as I held Dorian's burner phone, its cracked screen displaying his face through swollen flesh and crusted blood—one eye sealed shut, lips torn, but defiant stare intact. Conscious. Unbroken.
Zip ties carved crimson grooves into his wrists where they'd been wrenched behind a steel chair. Someone had orchestrated each bruise—enough damage to horrify without destroying.
I placed the device beside the handwritten message. The paper looked obscene lying on my kitchen counter, next to the yellow notepad where I usually jotted mundane reminders. Block letters in black ink:FEDERAL BUILDING. MIDNIGHT. COME ALONE. OR THE McCABES BECOME COLLATERAL.
My hands began clearing the wreckage left by the intruders. Porcelain shards from our morning coffee ritual clinked into the waste bin. I realigned scattered bills into orderly stacks. The repetitive motions steadied my breathing while my brain churned through possibilities.
Dorian is still alive. Start there.
The salt dispenser lay overturned from whatever struggle had torn through my apartment, white granules scattered like fractured bone across dark wood. I righted the container and swept the mess into my palm.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and contacted Michael. He responded immediately.
"You two safe?"
"They have him." The admission shredded my throat. "Dorian. Ambush at my apartment."
"Christ. You injured?"
"Untouched, but they left documentation." I studied the device's display again, memorizing every visible detail of Dorian's captivity. "Federal Building. Midnight. Solo approach required."
I heard Michael moving around—the thud of his boots and the muffled sound of a door sealing shut.
"Pure setup."
"Undoubtedly." I rinsed salt residue down the drain and watched white crystals disappear into darkness. "But they have him, Michael. Theyhavehim."
