Fifty-eight minutes until midnight.
Time to go collect the man I loved, or die trying.
The traffic was thin on Seattle's late-night highways. I merged onto First Avenue and let the truck's V8 pull me deeper into the urban core, where glass towers pierced the low-hanging cloud cover.
Rain had transformed the asphalt into black mirrors, each streetlight spawning orange halos that fractured and reformed as my tires carved through accumulated water. The city wore its wet season uniform—reflective surfaces everywhere.
I passed Pioneer Square's cobblestone emptiness, where weekend crowds usually gathered around buskers and food trucks. Now, only pigeons claimed the space, their gray forms huddled beneath storefront awnings. The homeless encampments had retreated deeper into doorways and alcoves, invisible except for the occasional shopping cart loaded with survival essentials.
My rearview mirror captured sporadic headlights maintaining careful distances. It was impossible to distinguish Michael's unmarked surveillance from legitimate traffic, but knowing he was back there somewhere provided marginal comfort. Backup existed, even if I couldn't see it.
The Federal Building's bulk appeared ahead—eleven stories of bureaucratic concrete rising from the intersection like a monument to institutional power. Floodlights bathed its lower floors in harsh white, while upper windows remained dark except for scattered squares where security personnel or obsessive civil servants burned midnight oil.
I circled the perimeter once, checking details. The building's north face had loading docks, accessible through a service alley barely wide enough for delivery vehicles. Concrete planters flanked the main entrance and doubled as vehicle barriers. Multiple surveillance cameras tracked every approach angle.
I completed my reconnaissance loop and selected a parking space two blocks south—close enough to reach on foot, and distant enough to avoid immediate detection. The residential street felt safer somehow, lined with converted townhouses.
The engine died with a mechanical sigh. Sudden silence rushed into the cab, broken only by rain drumming against the windshield.
I retrieved the burner phone and opened the photograph one final time. Dorian's battered face stared back, and his eyes remained alert. Calculating. He was planning something—I saw it in how his gaze focused slightly left of the camera, as if tracking movement beyond the frame, considering his first move.
He's preparing for a fight.
The realization sparked something fierce in my chest. Dorian hadn't surrendered, despite the zip ties and professional beating. He was gathering intelligence, measuring distances, and waiting for the right moment to act.
I wasn't walking into a simple hostage exchange. I was joining a battle already in progress.
I checked my watch: 11:55 PM. Five minutes until midnight. I slipped the phone into my jacket pocket and stepped into the light rain.
Time to end this.
I'm coming, Dorian. Just hold on.
Chapter eighteen
Dorian
"Thought you might be thirsty." Ercan carried a paper cup, moisture beading on its exterior. The offer came wrapped in practiced courtesy, but his voice had changed—deeper now, scarred by whatever they'd done to him after I'd handed him over.
I started to lean forward as he held it out. Room temperature water, probably filtered, definitely uninteresting compared to the impossibility standing before me. "Appreciate the consideration. Though I have to mention, your hospitality coordinator needs feedback on the seating arrangements."
He claimed the chair opposite mine, producing a tablet and stylus with bureaucratic efficiency. He'd rehearsed all the elements, but underneath I saw glimpses of the kid who'd asked me about his sister and who'd trusted me to take him somewhere safe.
"I imagine you've experienced less comfortable accommodations during your career." He spoke with a touch of mockery.
"Depends entirely on context." I parted my lips, but then I paused without drinking. My throat felt like sandpaper, but accepting anything from him might mean swallowing poison. "Are we performing the preliminary social ritual, or would you prefer to advance directly to whatever conclusion you've already reached?"
His expression shifted toward something resembling genuine amusement. His gaze was older now, harder. They'd taken the bright kid who'd joked about American movies and carved something else out of what remained.
"Direct approach," he said, fingers moving across the tablet's surface. "I respect that. Always did."
The accusation in those last two words hit hard.Always did.Past tense. Before I'd destroyed whatever trust he'd placed in me.
The tablet's screen awakened under his touch, displaying what appeared to be a detailed file. Probably mine, though I wondered how much of its contents represented actual intelligence versus creative speculation. In my experience, institutional records contained equal measures of both.
I let him settle into his role, watching him arrange his props and assume his position. Every interrogator needed to feel dominant before the real work could begin. The key was allowing them that illusion while gathering everything you needed to dismantle it.
Your move. Show me what you think you know.
