“Let go,” I snarl, trying to wrench free. “That’s my sister. Let me go.”
He doesn’t. He plants me against the concrete with his forearm braced against my chest and his eyes a hard wall. “We do not chase alone.”
I don’t hear reason. I slam my fist against his chest once, twice, fury flashing white through my vision. He absorbs it, his jaw tight, then eases me under the door and back into the dim corridor where the alarm is still blaring.
I shove past him and stumble into the service hallway, taking the stairs two at a time until I burst back into the main corridor. The staff are corralling people into lines, trying to shape the chaos into something that looks like order. I push through the crush of bodies, my pulse roaring in my ears, until I reach Hope’s room.
The rolling table sits crooked. The pen lies where I dropped it. The bed is smooth, untouched.
My hands find the edges of the mattress, gripping hard enough to sting. I try to draw a breath, but the air refuses to come. I try to think, but fear still has everything locked inside me.
Hope is gone.
20
LUKA
I am already running when Misha shoves through the last double doors, the corridor folding sound into a tight drumbeat that hammers under my skin. The fluorescent lights overhead pulse in rhythm with my footsteps, each one marking the distance between me and the hell waiting at the dock.
Albert's voice bites through the radio clipped to my shoulder, all business and a bare edge of panic I do not permit myself to match. “White van. Decal on the door. East lot. Plate unknown. Moving north. Blocker to gate two now.”
“Albert, hold your position at the hospital,” I command into the radio. “Keep Sage inside. No one moves until I’m back.”
“Understood,” he replies.
My breath tightens, lungs working overtime to fuel the sprint. Every second that passes is another second Hope travels farther from safety, and another second Sage's world fractures beyond repair. I cannot allow that. I will not allow it.
“Lock everything,” I order into the radio. “Full lockdown. All cameras live. Two vehicles at the ramp. Move.”
The command echoes down the line, my men responding with affirmations that barely register. My focus has compressed to a single point: find the van, stop it, bring Hope back before Sage's trust in me shatters like glass under a boot heel.
Misha vaults the service steps ahead of me. His weapon is already drawn, finger resting against the trigger guard with trained instinct. “Kolya's on the lower level,” he reports over his shoulder, his voice even despite the exertion. “He heard the alarm. He's moving.”
I follow him down the steps two at a time, my own hand finding the familiar grip of my pistol beneath my jacket. The metal is cold against my palm, a reminder of what this life demands. Violence when necessary. Control always. Failure never.
We burst through the service exit into the mountain air, and the cold hits my face like a slap. Pine and frost cut through the sterile hospital scent like knives. My eyes adjust to the sudden brightness, scanning the parking area for threats, movement, or any sign of where they have taken Hope.
Vega runs at my side, nails ticking on the concrete, his presence a tether to focus. The dog keeps pace effortlessly, trained for exactly this scenario, ready to pursue or attack on my command. But I cannot take him. Not this time. There is a room in this facility where one life is more vital than any tactical advantage I could gain from his teeth and loyalty.
I lift a hand and press him by the collar, fingers hard against his warm fur. “Stoy,” I instruct.Stay.The command carries the force of absolute authority. “Guard Sage. Do not leave her.” He meets my gaze, intelligence burning in his eyes, and I know he understands exactly what I’ve told him.
The words feel wrong even as I utter them. Hope has been stolen by men brazen enough to stage a kidnapping in broad daylight. And Sage needs someone to stop her from doing something reckless like charging after her sister without a weapon or backup. Vega will keep her safe, even if she fights him on it.
He rests his head against my palm for one brief moment, an anchor in a world spinning rapidly toward chaos. Then he turns, obedient, and melts into the hospital doorway, disappearing into fluorescent lights and antiseptic corridors. Every inch of me wants to stay, to go back inside and find Sage, and see with my own eyes that she is unharmed. Instead, I climb into Kolya's vehicle, strap the belt across my chest, and the chase becomes oxygen.
Kolya sits behind the wheel already, engine running, hands positioned at ten and two with the casual readiness of a man who lives for moments exactly like this. His jaw is set, eyes fixed on the road ahead, waiting for my signal. I slam the door, and he tears us out of the dock with an acceleration that makes the tires scream against the pavement. The road unfolds into switchbacks that climb with smug indifference toward the foothills. Gravel throws itself aside as the pavement narrows, the guardrails becoming the only thing between us and a long drop into pine-filled ravines.
I ask for the east lot feed, and Misha answers with a screen full of live tiles, each a tiny window into what is becoming a larger lie. His fingers work the tablet, pulling up camera angles and scrubbing through footage with the speed of a man who has analyzed hundreds of operations.
The east lot shows a gate arm ripped clean off its hydraulic base, and the guard booth door half-open, swinging in the wind. The white van is a smear moving north on the access road, thehospital decal on its side a sloppy forgery that might trick a civilian glance and nothing else. The plate is obscured by glare and distance, gibberish in the poor resolution.
“Rewind three minutes,” I tell Misha. “Show me where it came from and who it passed.”
He scrubs the tape backward and narrates cold facts as they appear. Two figures in masks, movements synchronized with military precision. A truck was positioned to block camera two at the crucial moment. A looped recording replaced the live feed at the exact second the wheelchair exited the building. His fingers keep time on the tablet, pulling up angle after angle. “They used a maintenance truck to blind the camera,” he observes, his voice flat with professional assessment. “One man driving the van. They kept it small. Less to track.”
The words confirm what my gut already knows: this was planned meticulously, every angle accounted for, every contingency mapped. Someone spent time studying this hospital, its security protocols, its blind spots, and its patterns of movement. The chaos wasn’t reactionary. It was orchestrated to the second. And in the middle of it, a fake nurse walked Hope out of the hospital.
We hit the main access road, and the van comes into view ahead, white against the dark green of towering pines. The driver pushes the vehicle hard, the tires squealing on curves designed for half this speed. He clips a concrete bollard at one intersection and keeps moving as if the world owes him a clear path. The recklessness speaks of desperation or stupidity, possibly both.
