Chapter One
~ Mishka ~
I shifted uncomfortably against the cold leather seats, the metal handcuffs biting into my wrists. Outside, snowflakes drifted lazily past the car windows, illuminated by sporadic streetlights like nature's own surveillance cameras.
My kidnappers' voices grew louder in the front seats, their argument over payment terms more heated than the car's broken heater.
Amateurs.
If there was one thing more annoying than being kidnapped, it was being kidnapped by idiots who couldn't even agree on their payday.
"I'm telling you, we get fifty grand for him, not twenty-five," snapped the driver, a weasel-faced man with nicotine-stained fingers that drummed impatiently on the steering wheel. "O'Rourke was clear. Fifty for undamaged goods."
His partner, a bulkier specimen whose neck appeared to have given up the fight against his shoulders years ago, snorted. "Yeah? Then why's the text say twenty-five? You telling me you can't read now?"
I rolled my eyes. Nothing says "professional abduction" like a mid-transport payment dispute.
"Maybe it's a down payment," Weasel-face suggested, his voice climbing an octave. "Twenty-five now, twenty-five on delivery."
"That ain't how O'Rourke operates and you know it," Neck-optional countered. "Full payment, one transaction. Clean and simple."
I cleared my throat. "Have you considered that perhaps you're being stiffed because you're terrible at your jobs?"
Both men whipped around to stare at me, the sudden silence thick enough to spread on toast.
"Nobody asked you," Neck-optional growled.
"Just trying to be helpful." I smiled sweetly. "Management consultancy. It's what I do."
Weasel-face turned back to the road with a muttered curse. "Just shut up back there. You're only worth money if you're breathing, but nobody said anything about conscious."
The car fell silent again as I studied my surroundings. We were in the industrial district, judging by the abandoned warehouses looming like forgotten monuments. Few pedestrians braved the snow-dusted streets at this hour, and fewer still would be inclined to help a young man in handcuffs.
The handcuffs.
I narrowed my eyes at them, examining the small digital lock nestled in the metal. The O'Rourke Syndicate had been hunting me for months, ever since they'd discovered my particular talent. They had no idea I could do more than just "make things work." I could also make things stop working altogether.
I focused on the lock's tiny electrical circuit, feeling the familiar tingle in my fingertips as I connected with it. The sensation was like tuning a radio—finding that perfect frequency where everything aligned. Once I had it, I sent a surge through the circuit, shorting the mechanism.
Nothing says "organized crime" like programmable handcuffs with a three-dollar security system.
The lock quietly clicked open. I kept my hands positioned as if still bound, waiting for the right moment. Patience wasn't my strongest virtue, but it beat dying.
"Just call him," Neck-optional was saying, his meaty hand gesturing toward Weasel-face's phone. "Clear this shit up now."
Weasel-face reached for his phone, then hesitated. "What if he gets pissed we're questioning the payment?"
"What if he gets pissed we show up expecting fifty grand and he's only authorized twenty-five?"
Their argument resumed with renewed vigor, complete with colorful language that would make a sailor blush. I seized my chance as they approached a red light, the car slowing to a stop.
In one fluid motion, I slipped my hands from the cuffs, reached for the door handle, and pushed my way out into the frigid night air. The door slammed behind me as I dropped to a crouch, pressing my palm against the rear tire.
Metal, rubber, electrical systems—they all spoke to me in their own way. I sent a quick pulse through the tire, finding the valve and overheating it until the rubber began to melt around it. One down, one to go. I scrambled around the back of the car as shouts erupted from within.
"He's out! He's fucking out!"
The front door flung open just as I finished with the second rear tire. I didn't wait around to admire my handiwork, darting instead into the nearest alley. Behind me, the distinctive hiss of air escaping tires provided a satisfying soundtrack to my escape.
