We took the stairs instead of the elevator—it was faster—and burst into the garage where Andrei’s black Mercedes sat gleaming under fluorescent lights. A six-figure car that could probably outrun most police cruisers if needed. Right now, I didn’t care what it cost. I only cared about how fast it could get me to Barbara.
Andrei drove. Timur took shotgun. I sat in the back, my phone clutched in white-knuckled hands, watching the GPS dot that represented Barbara. It wasn’t moving. Hadn’t moved since I’d activated the tracker.
Please be alive. Please be alive. Please be alive.
The prayer repeated in my head with every heartbeat, every breath, every second that stretched into eternity.
Andrei didn’t obey a single traffic law. Blew through red lights, took corners at speeds that made the tires scream, wove through traffic like we were in a video game instead of reality. Fifteen minutes became twelve. Twelve became eight.
“Talk to me,” Timur said, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “What are we walking into?”
“I don’t know.” My voice sounded foreign to my own ears. “Could be Sebastian. Could be Los Zetas. Could be….” I couldn’t finish. Couldn’t voice all the horrible possibilities.
“Sebastian Davis?” Timur turned in his seat to look at me. “Andrew’s son? The one with cartel connections?”
“Yeah.” I forced myself to focus, to think tactically instead of emotionally. “He’s been blackmailing Barbara for years. Terrorizing her. I think—” The words stuck in my throat. “I think he might’ve finally snapped.”
Timur’s expression went cold. “If he killed her—”
“He didn’t.” I said it with more conviction than I felt. “She called me. She’s alive. We’re going to get there in time.”
We had to get there in time.
The city gave way to industrial wasteland—abandoned factories and rusted warehouses, empty lots filled with debris and forgotten dreams. The kind of area where the city pretended not to see what happened after dark.
“There.” I pointed to a structure ahead—more ruin than building, its walls partially collapsed, roof caved in on one side. The GPS showed Barbara’s phone somewhere inside.
Andrei didn’t slow down. Just aimed the Mercedes at the building and hit the brakes at the last possible second, gravel spraying as we skidded to a stop yards from a gap in the wall.
We were out of the car before the engine fully died.
I hit the gap in the wall at a dead run, Timur and Andrei flanking me with weapons drawn. The building’s interior was worse than the exterior—concrete crumbling, metal beams exposed and rusted, broken glass crunching under our boots. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through holes in the roof, painting everything in shades of gray and gold.
And red.
So much red.
“There!” Andrei’s voice cut through the pounding in my ears.
I saw her.
A crumpled figure near the back wall, lying in a pool of blood that looked black in the dim light. Too much blood. Too still.
“Barbara!” Her name ripped from my throat as I ran to her, dropping to my knees beside her body. My hands hovered over her, afraid to touch, afraid that touching would confirm what my eyes were already telling me.
She wasn’t moving. Wasn’t breathing. Her skin was pale as death, her hair matted with blood from a wound on the back of her head. Blood pooled beneath her, soaking into concrete that had probably absorbed more blood than anyone wanted to count.
“No, no, no—” My fingers found her throat, searching desperately for a pulse. For any sign that I wasn’t too late. That she hadn’t—
There.
Faint. Thready. Barely there. But a pulse.
“She’s alive.” The words came out choked. “She’s alive but barely breathing. We need an ambulance—”
“Already calling.” Andrei had his phone out, speaking rapid Russian to emergency dispatch.
Timur was scanning the building, weapon still raised, checking for threats. “We need to move her. This place isn’t secure.”
