"If you're done practicing your banter, I'd like to know who signed off on this."
He sits, cross-legged, less menacing than bored.
"It doesn't matter. No one's coming for you. Ruairí has got bigger problems than a missing wife."
"Balls," I say and spit again, this time hitting the floor.
"He's probably got the whole city looking. Unless you're planning to kill me before sundown, you're the ones in trouble."
Deep down, the dread is settling.
What if he doesn't come?
What if this is it for my babies and me, and I never even got to tell him?
My eyes begin to stint, but I hold my ground.
He narrows his eyes, then looks at the nervous one.
"She's not wrong. If you hear anything outside, we go quiet. No mistakes."
Nervous gives a jerky nod, and the gym rat cracks his knuckles.
I run a new calculus—they're not here for a long-term stay.
Either I'm trade bait or they want me as a body, not a hostage.
I let my head loll, eyes half shut but keep cataloguing.
Scarface is ex-military, probably private security before this.
The gym rat is all ego, no discipline—definitely the kind of man who'll get trigger-happy if things go south.
Nervous is the wildcard.
He keeps checking the door, which means he's expecting company.
Or interference.
Time passes slowly—the swing of the bulb, the shift of the shadows, the relentless tick of Scarface's boots on metal.
I let my mind drift to the last thing I remember—Lena trying to save my life and possibly sacrificing her own.
There is a crash outside, not dramatic, more like a dropped pallet than a gunfight.
But Scarface's head snaps up, and the gym rat's hand goes straight to his weapon.
Nervous flinches, then tries to hide it.
They are close to panic.
I can smell it.
Scarface moves to the door, stands to the side.
He signals the others into position with a tilt of his chin.
The gym rat takes a spot behind the stack of cardboard.
