They haul me upright and shove me forward, one of them gripping my bicep like a vice. We exit the room into a hallway that smells like damp concrete and old cigarettes. My legs don’t want to move the way I need them to, so I stumble with every step, half-dragged, half-pushed.
The wind slices through my shirt the second they shove me outside. No warning—just rough hands and cold air that cuts to the bone. They don’t speak. Just march me forward. Mechanical. Like this is routine for them.
Up ahead, floodlights buzz against the dark. A warehouse stands at the edge of the lot, windowless and streaked with grime, its corrugated metal siding rattling in the wind. We approach it from the side and one of them keys in a code. The door screeches open. They grab my arms tighter, hauling me forward like I’m a piece of cargo.
Inside, it’s dim. The place reeks of mildew and metal. It reminds me of the kind of place where people vanish.
The door slams shut behind me.
They shove me into a dim hallway that smells like mold and old oil. Fluorescents buzz overhead, flickering like something out of a nightmare.
Then we enter the main room. It’s vast and empty except for a set of chairs strategically placed under harsh white lights. A line of men flanks each wall, some with rifles slung casually acrosstheir chests, others with arms crossed like they’re waiting for a show.
At the back, leaning against a support column like he owns the world, is Christian De la Rosa.
He doesn’t look at me right away. He’s watching someone else.
Spalding.
The former agent paces across the room like a man teetering on the edge of sanity. His tie is gone. His shirt’s wrinkled, sweat darkening the collar. He’s got the twitchy energy of someone who knows the walls are closing in but is trying to pretend they’re not.
“Put her there,” he barks, pointing to the chair.
They push me into it. My shoulders jerk as I land, hands crushed behind the chair. One of them zip-ties my ankles to the legs, another slaps a gag over my mouth.
I can’t move. I can’t speak. But I can still see.
Christian finally turns his eyes to me. His smile is warm in a creepy sort of way. “Ah, Astrid.” He says my name like he’s savoring it. “Welcome to the negotiation.”
I glare at him, refusing to flinch. His eyes roam over me, not lecherous but clinical, as if I’m a chess piece he intends to trade. Or destroy.
Spalding clears his throat. “She knows what’s at stake.”
Christian smirks. “Oh, I’m sure she does.”
They return to their corners. They’re waiting for someone.
My wrists are raw, hurting as I scan the room. There’s another exit at the far end. A second-story walkway is above me, a catwalk. More guards up top. Christian’s men, ten or so of them, probably more outside.
I breathe through my nose. Slow and steady.
The sound of heavy footsteps approaching makes my pulse spike.
I don’t need to look to know it’s him.
The moment Yuri steps into view, my chest tightens. He’s calm. Black coat open, a stoic expression on his face. His eyes scan the room once, landing on me.
He freezes. For a split second I can see everything he’s feeling. The rage. The fear. The burning need to murder every man in the room.
He blinks, inhales through his nose, and the mask settles back into place. Cold Ivanov steel.
Spalding smiles and spreads his arms. “Thanks for coming, Yuri. You look well.”
Yuri doesn’t answer. His gaze flicks from me to Christian and back.
“I assume you know why you’re here,” Spalding continues. “You want the girl. I want a clean slate.”
Yuri’s mouth twitches between a smile and a snarl. “A clean slate?”
