“Leave her here,” I say. “We’ll call in an anonymous tip once we’re clear. They’ll find her, get her help. No questions.”
V arches a brow. “Really trusting law enforcement all of a sudden?”
“I’m trustingtime.We don’t have it.” I pause. “And she doesn’t need our names tied to hers. Not after what she’s been through.”
He shrugs. “Fair. We weren’t exactly clean with this one,” he says, gesturing to the blood-slick floor, broken furniture, and three very dead men. “But I can work with this.”
He’s already moving, heading towards the bathroom and returning with a few packages of disinfecting wipes. “I guess this is one thing we can thank Covid for, huh?” He starts wiping down surfaces the best he can.
I move closer to the bed and stop just short. She’s curled in on herself, barely breathing, a mess of smeared makeup and bruises. Her lashes flutter weakly. Whatever cocktail they pumped into her is still doing its job—keeping her compliant. Helpless.
I don't touch her.
She’s had enough of that.
“Hey,” I say, voice steady but low. “It’s over.”
Her lips part, dry and cracked, but no words come.
“You’re safe now. You’re not going anywhere you don’t want to.”
Her eyelids twitch, then open—just barely. Eyes dull. Glazed. Fighting whatever they gave her.
She blinks at me like she’s not sure I’m real.
Then her mouth moves.
“Annie.”
I nod once. “Okay. Annie.”
“Annie… Annie…” she whispers again, voice trailing off as her eyes close. The repetition fades into silence. A final breath escapes her, long and soft, and then she goes still again.
Behind me, V surveys the room—bodies, blood, broken furniture, and chaos.
“This is the best we’re gonna get,” he says finally. “Hopefully the cops won’t look too close.”
“They’ll focus on her,” I reply. “She’ll be the story.”
V nods. “Exactly. I’ll keep an eye on the digital case file, make sure nothing that ties back to us survives. If it does? I’ll scrub it. Corrupt the evidence, nuke the metadata. The usual.”
I cast one last look at the girl—Annie—and give a sharp nod. “Yeah. That’ll work.”
We slip out the door quietly. So far, no one’s come knocking. Most hotel guests are probably still downstairs, drunk or bleeding cash into slot machines.
The hallway stays mercifully silent as we move fast, blending into the chaos like ghosts.
Once we hit the parking garage, V pulls out one of his burners. He dials without hesitation, keeping his voice low and clipped as he makes the anonymous call. A girl in trouble. A room full of bodies. A location.
He hangs up and pockets the phone like it never existed.
Then he turns to me. “So… we taking a ride?”
I nod, no hesitation. “Holloway’s next.”
THOR
The speedometer climbspast ninety as rage fuels my driving. Vincent fucking Holloway. The name loops through my head like a death sentence—his, not mine.
