Holding my breath, I start to creep around the edge of the warehouse. Most of the windows are boarded up, blocking the interior from view, but I keep going.
I’m almost at the main entrance when I spot a small window, the glass cracked and covered in a thin layer of dust, but it’s enough for me to get a good look inside.
I stand on my tiptoes and peer through the window. “Oh, my god.”
Mila.
Her hands and feet are bound to a metal chair with rope, and her dark hair is matted and stuck to her face. Tears stream down her cheeks, but for the most part, she looks unharmed.
It’s more than I can say for Max.
The thought has my throat burning as I take in the sight of my best friend, terrified and grieving. Even if I manage to get her out of here, I’m not sure she will ever forgive me for the part I played in her brother’s death, and I’m not sure I want her to.
I don’t deserve her forgiveness.
Mila must feel my eyes on her as she lifts her head, and her eyes lock with mine through the window. They widen, and her lips part, but I shake my head and press a finger to my lips.
Mila blinks slowly before lowering her gaze back to the floor as tears continue to stream down her cheeks.
I can’t see anyone else in there with her, but that doesn’t mean she’s alone.
I creep back around the side of the warehouse, staying low and sticking to the shadows.
The industrial area is completely deserted this late at night; the only sound is the distant hum of traffic and my heavy breathing.
As I reach the side door, still propped open by an old brick, an overwhelming sense of dread washes over me.
This door hasn’t been left open by accident, which means whoever is inside is confident enough that they can handle any intruders.
I pause, pressing my forehead lightly against the cold metal door.
What the hell am I doing? I have no plan and no backup. One wrong move, and Mila and I could both end up dead. But what if waiting for Ronan makes things worse? Then he could end up dead as well, and I can’t live with that. So, I take a deep breath and slip inside.
I find myself in a dimly lit corridor lined with dusty shelves filled with junk and old rusted machine parts. Creeping forward on my tiptoes, I keep my steps as light and quiet as possible as I strain my ears to listen for any sign of movement.
But there’s nothing.
So, I keep going, slow and steady, a rat scurrying in the night.
When I round a corner, a male voice filters down the corridor toward me.
I freeze.
His voice is low, and the words are too muffled for me to make out what he’s saying, but I can hear the urgency in hisvoice loud and clear. Whoever he’s talking to, it doesn’t sound like they’re happy.
Shit.
Ignoring the sick feeling in my stomach, I creep along the rest of the corridor until I come to a door that I’m fairly confident leads to the room where Mila is being kept. It’s cracked open just enough for me to peek through without being seen.
Inside, an enormous man paces back and forth in front of Mila with a gun in his hand.
The sight of him almost has me emptying my stomach all over the floor.
He’s holding a phone to his ear. He’s easily six foot three, maybe taller, and likely weighs more than Mila and me combined. Any inch of skin that is showing beneath his tight-fitting black t-shirt is covered in tattoos. Even the side of his head has been inked.
I don’t recognize him, which unnerves me.
Who the hell is orchestrating this?
