When I came to, the vans were gone, tire tracks chewed into the grass, and a haze of burnt rubber in the air. The drone hovered overhead, then zipped off after them, silent as a shark. The only thing left was the echo of her scream and the taste of my own blood in my mouth.
I staggered to my feet, unsteady, every sound raw and bright. The wolf in me wanted to run, to chase, to tear the world apart. I stumbled down the drive, howling until my throat tore.
But they were gone. And all I had left was the promise that I’d get her back, or die trying.
Carrie
I came to with my head lolling to the side, jaw pressed against cold metal. My arms were bound behind me, zip-tie burning into my wrists. The world spun, then snapped into a point of agony above my eyebrow—someone clocked me good. Blood in my mouth, and the acrid tang of fury.
I took stock: a metal folding chair, feet on wet cement, one ankle zip-tied to the crossbar. My tongue found a loose molar but nothing that would slow me. I forced my eyes open. Horror-movie warehouse: high windows smeared with grime, one bulb dangling overhead, its cage ringed with dead insects. Oil and old blood stained the floor, walls a riot of graffiti, peeling paint, Russian warning signs. Chains hung from exposed beams—some snapped, some looped like nooses.
Then I watched the men.
Marcus paced in front of me, dress shoes clicking, still in his TV suit—shirt rumpled, sweat blooming at the armpits. He cradled a cell phone, eyes flicking between me and the screen. Waiting for permission to kill.
In the corner, Evelyn Hart loomed like a ghost, coat buttoned to her chin, face unreadable. Her gloves were off—her fingerstrembled as she crossed her arms. Corporate legitimacy for Marcus’s fucked-up theater. I let a slow smile spread.
“You find this funny?” Marcus barked. “Stillwater bourbon is a punchline. Your name’s a punchline. If you’d given me what I wanted, you’d be at the Four Seasons, not in a piss-soaked warehouse in Shively.”
I rattled the chair. “You’re obsessed with legacy, Marcus. Most men your age settle for a Porsche and a second wife.”
His face twitched. “You never took me seriously. That’s the problem with women like you. Untouchable. But the rules apply. You’re breathing only because I need your signature.” He flung a sheaf of papers onto my lap; some slid to the floor.
I glanced at the headers: Transfer of Power. Non-Compete. Shareholder Proxy. My name in bold. I grinned. “You think this is about the bourbon?”
He backhanded me, so precise the chair barely shifted. I tasted copper. Evelyn flinched but stayed frozen.
“It’s about everything,” he spat. “Your father left you the world, and you pissed it away. I rebuilt this company while you fucked a biker, pissed off the Feds, and leaked secrets to every competitor with a podcast. You’re a child. Now you’re going to fix it.”
I saw the play. Degrade me, make me beg. But he was terrified of what I had left, and of my security if he played it wrong. The more he talked, the more desperate he got.
I looked at Evelyn. “You good with this? Think he won’t put a bullet in me once you sign?”
She pressed her lips thin. “I’m just a witness, Caroline. Nothing more.”
I nodded—stall, distract, make them miscalculate. “Marcus, the board knows you torched the rickhouse. Audit’s done. You won’t get two steps with those papers before the FBI tears you apart.”
He stiffened, like he might hit me again. “I don’t care about the Feds. I’ll be gone in six hours, very rich. You’ll be an obituary. Accidental death, tragic legacy.”
I tilted my head. “You’re going to kill me?”
He leaned in, breath hot with whiskey. “You’ll kill yourself, after a remorseful letter. Leave everything to me. That’s how they’ll find you. That’s your legacy.”
I rolled my eyes and flexed my wrists. The zip-tie wasn’t tight—rushed job. I rotated my thumb, feeling plastic bite.
A rumble outside. Static in the air. The cavalry.
Vin’s voice came first, distant, then closer—orders to cover the alley, the loading dock. A scuffle, a scream, then Moab’s roar echoing from the bay.
I kept calm as the zip-tie groaned. I sensed Shiv's steps, that growl, the silent way he said my name.
Marcus must have felt it. He pulled a gun and aimed at my head. “Sign, or I shoot you now and forge the rest.”
Evelyn stepped forward. “Marcus, this wasn’t the deal—”
“Shut up, Ev. You’re useful. Nothing more.”
Her face drained. She stayed.