The words scrape over my skin.
We push through a side exit.
Cold air slaps my face, and it helps—just a little. My brain clears by a fraction, enough for the fear to turn sharp instead of foggy.
I try to plant my feet again.
I try to resist.
One of the men grips me harder. “Move.”
I stumble forward, forcing my legs to work.
A white van is parked near the service area, positioned like it belongs there.
Like it’s always belonged there.
The side door slides open.
A dark mouth waiting to swallow me whole.
“No,” I whisper, the word trembling.
Hammond meets my gaze, close enough now that I can see the tightness around his eyes.
“This isn’t personal,” he says softly. “It’s business. And survival.”
My stomach lurches.
He actually believes that.
They lift me into the van.
My shoulder hits the metal interior. I twist, trying to kick, trying to bite—something—anything?—
A hand clamps over my mouth.
My pulse is a roar in my ears.
The door slides shut with a final, sickening thud.
Darkness.
Engine noise.
Movement.
We’re moving.
We’re leaving.
My vision blurs with panic and rage.
Crewe.
Crewe is going to come back into the lab and I won’t be there.
He’s going to see the space where I was standing and feel the air of it—gone, wrong, stolen.
