By tonight, I’ll be gone. Handed over. Owned.
I close my eyes against the glare of the chandelier, but the tears keep coming, soaking the satin pillow beneath my cheek. My body shakes with silent sobs—tired, hungry, sad, desolate sobs that wrack me until I’m empty. The auction is coming. The sale is coming. And after that… nothing. Just the end of Salem Bloom.
I lie there, fists clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms, heart still hammering its useless escape rhythm, and let the desolation swallow me whole. No one is coming. No one ever was.
TWO
OZZY
The thing about “top secret extractions” is that everyone says top secret like it’s a vibe. Like it’s a cute little aesthetic. Like it doesn’t mean I’m crouched in the back of an unmarked SUV at two in the morning, wearing black-on-black-on-black that’s so matte it sucks in light like a bad breakup. The fabric clings to my skin, sticky with the humid night air that sneaks in through the cracked window, smelling like wet asphalt and distant ocean salt mixed with the faint, greasy whiff of the fast-food wrapper Arrow crumpled up an hour ago. I’m holding a burner phone that’s one wrong swipe away from becoming evidence in my own murder trial—or worse, a meme on some dark web forum where hackers roast my thumbprint security.
Rae’s voice crackles in my earpiece, tinny and sharp like she’s whispering through a tin can strung across the city. “You’re breathing loud, Oz.”
“I’m breathing heroically,” I whisper back, my breath fogging the screen of the phone for a split second before I wipe it away with my sleeve. “It’s different. Heroes get to huff dramatically. Villains wheeze.”
From the front seat, Arrow makes a sound that isn’t a laugh but is definitely the closest he’s capable of. His silhouette blocks half the dashboard lights, casting long shadows that make the SUV feel like a coffin on wheels. The engine hums softly beneath us, a steady purr that does nothing to drown out the distant wail of a siren echoing off the high-rises, probably some poor sap getting busted for jaywalking in this godforsaken hour.
Juno’s on comms too, her voice calm as a surgeon mid-incision, smooth and unflappable, like she’s narrating a yoga class instead of a felony. “Focus. You’re a distraction machine on a good day. Today we need you to be a scalpel.”
“Copy,” I murmur, even though my pulse is already sprinting ahead of the mission, thumping in my ears like a bad EDM track. My fingers twitch on the phone, the cheap plastic warm from my grip, and I resist the urge to check the time again. Every second feels like it’s coated in molasses, slow and sticky.
Because the file Rae pushed to my phone a week ago is burned into my brain, glowing like a neon sign in a dive bar. SALEM BLOOM. Black hair that probably falls in those effortless waves you see in shampoo ads, stormy-gray eyes that could pierce through fog—or, in this case, the haze of whatever drugs they’ve pumped into her to keep her compliant. Twenty-something, snatched three weeks ago from some innocuous spot, maybe a coffee shop or a late-night jog, funneled through a private pipeline of scumbags who treat people like luxury goods. About to be sold to the highest bidder, some oil baron or tech bro with a yacht and a conscience as empty as their crypto wallet.
Maddox Security is handling the larger net—Dean, Riggs, Sawyer are out there working the perimeter and pressure points, probably sweating through their tactical vests in this muggy heat, trying to identify where Serafina fits into this traffickingring and who’s been taking orders from her shadowy ass. Serafina’s been a thorn in Dean’s side for years when a mission went wrong back when he was a Navy SEAL. She only just reappeared on his radar, and has been making our missions a living hell ever since. I can picture Dean barking orders in that gravelly voice of his, Riggs cracking jokes to ease the tension, and Sawyer... well, being Sawyer, silent and lethal like a shadow with a sniper rifle.
My job is simpler. Get the girl. Get her out. Don’t die. Don’t improvise.
The last part is… aspirational. Improv is my love language. It’s how I turned a botched stakeout into a viral dance-off once. It’s a long story, and involved a clown costume and a very confused arms dealer. Do not recommend.
Arrow’s plan is clean. I hate it for that. Too straightforward, like a grocery list: eggs, milk, kidnap rescue. We have a staging property outside Saint Pierce that acts as a “holding” location before the real auction site. High rise, all glass and steel that gleams under the city lights like a smug middle finger to the poor folks below. Security heavy—guards with earpieces and egos, pacing the lobby with that bored swagger, their boots squeaking on polished marble. Cameras everywhere watching like judgmental aunts at a family reunion. Men with guns who think they’re untouchable because they hide behind money and NDAs, probably sipping overpriced energy drinks that taste like battery acid while they scroll memes on their phones.
We’re not going through the front. That’d be suicide, or at least a really awkward elevator ride. No, we’re going through the building’s spine. Through the service tunnels snaking underground. It's a labyrinth of damp concrete and exposed pipes that drip with condensation, echoing every footstep likea horror movie soundtrack. The air down there smells like rust and mildew, thick enough to chew, with the faint buzz of fluorescent lights flickering overhead, casting jaundiced glows that make everyone look like zombies.
Arrow kills the engine, and the SUV goes silent, save for the tick-tick of cooling metal. He turns, his face a mask of stoic intensity under the faint green glow of the dash. “Ready?”
“As ready as a cat in a room full of laser pointers,” I quip, but my voice is steadier than I feel. I tuck the burner into my vest, feeling the weight of the tranq gun at my hip—non-lethal, because we’re the good guys, allegedly—and slide out into the night. The breeze carries the sharp tang of garbage from a nearby alley, mixing with the adrenaline spiking in my veins.
We move like ghosts, Arrow leading with that predatory grace of his, me trailing with what I hope is stealth but probably looks like a kid playing spy. The entrance to the tunnels is a nondescript manhole behind a dumpster that reeks of rotten takeout. Arrow pries it open with a crowbar that screeches like nails on a chalkboard, and I wince, half-expecting alarms to blare.
“Clear,” Juno whispers in my ear. “Cameras looped for the next ten.”
Down we go, into the bowels of the city. The ladder rungs are slick with moisture, cold metal biting into my palms, and each step down amps the claustrophobia. The tunnel walls close in, graffiti scrawled in faded spray paint—hearts, curses, some artist’s tag that looks like a drunk spiderweb. Pipes groan overhead, water rushing through them like distant thunder, and somewhere a rat skitters, its tiny claws scratching like fingernails on glass.
My mind races ahead to Salem. What if she’s drugged out, fighting, or worse—broken? I push the thought away with a mental joke:Hey, at least if this goes south, I can always claim it was performance art. “Extraction: The Musical.”
Arrow signals a halt at a junction, his hand slicing the air. Voices echo faintly from above—guards bantering about some sports game, their laughter muffled but cocky. We slip past, up a maintenance shaft that’s basically a vertical coffin, my muscles burning as I haul myself rung by rung, sweat trickling down my back like icy fingers.
Finally, the access panel to the holding floor. Arrow pops it with a gadget that looks like a fancy bottle opener, and we’re in—a utility closet stacked with mops that smell like pine cleaner and regret. Heart pounding, I peek out: hallway empty, carpet plush underfoot, absorbing our steps like secrets.
Room 1408. Her door. Lock picked in seconds… thanks to Juno’s tech wizardry. Inside, the room’s dim, lit by a single lamp that casts long shadows over silk sheets rumpled on the bed. And there she is: Salem. She’s breathtaking, but I try to focus on the here and now. She’s here. She’s weak. And now it’s time to get her the fuck out.
“Hey,” I whisper, holding up my hands like I’m approaching a spooked cat. “I’m Ozzy. Here to crash the party. You like piña coladas? Getting caught in the rain? No? Bad timing. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
She blinks, then—miracle of miracles—a tiny, crooked smile. “Worst rescue line ever.”
And just like that, my heart does a flip that’s equal parts relief and oh-shit-this-is-real. Arrow covers the door while I help herup. She’s light, trembling, her skin cool and clammy against mine, smelling faintly of lavender soap masking something sharper—fear, maybe drugs.
THREE