Lincoln had been back there. He’d said he was right behind her.
Morgan crawled toward the wreckage, toward the fire. “Lincoln!” Her voice came out raw. “Lincoln!”
The rubble shifted. For one moment, she thought she saw movement?—
Then hands closed around her from behind.
For one desperate second, she thought,Callum. Theo. Someone from the team.
She twisted to look, and the hope died. Two men she’d never seen before, tactical gear, faces hard and blank. Not rescuers.Hunters.
She fought. Twisting, kicking, her body operating on instinct. But there were two of them, then three, pinning her arms, forcing her to her knees.
This had all been a trap. All of it.
She screamed Lincoln’s name as they dragged her away from the wreckage. Screamed until her throat tore. The flames grew smaller as they hauled her deeper into the building, away from the collapsed corridor, away from any chance of reaching him.
They pulled her through a loading dock entrance, into a section that hadn’t collapsed. Morgan’s struggles weakened as reality settled into her bones.
Lincoln hadn’t made it out behind her. Neither had Derek or Bear.
The men yanked her through a doorway, down another corridor. Her feet scraped against concrete. She tried to find purchase, tried to slow them down, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate and there were too many hands holding her. The smoke thinned as they moved deeper into the undamaged section of the building. Away from the fire. Away from the rubble.
Away from Lincoln.
She couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t let herself picture him under the concrete and twisted metal. If she started, she wouldn’t stop. She’d shatter into pieces too small to ever reassemble.
Not yet. Hold it together. He’d want you to hold it together.
They brought her to an open space—industrial shelvingagainst the walls, battery-powered lights casting harsh shadows. And there, waiting, was Randall.
He looked exactly as she remembered. Clean-cut. Expensive suit, even here, even now. The same flat, assessing eyes that had watched her bleed onto warehouse floors. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, perfectly still, like a man who’d been waiting for a delivery and was pleased to see it finally arrive.
“Morgan.” He said her name like he was greeting an old colleague. “You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble.”
She didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Her eyes had found what sat beside him on the concrete floor.
The box.
Four feet by four feet by four feet. Maybe the same one. He’d brought it here. For her.
The sight of it slammed into her chest. Darkness. No room to stand. The smell of metal and her own fear. Her lungs locked. Her vision tunneled. The walls were already pressing in, already crushing her, already?—
Stop.
The command came from somewhere deep. From the part of her that had survived twelve foster homes. From the part that had sent coordinates in broken poetry when she had nothing else.
From the part that sounded, impossibly, like Lincoln.
Don’t give him this. Don’t let him see you break.
Morgan forced air into her lungs. Forced her spine straight. She would stand on her own for as long as she could.
Randall watched her pull herself together. Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe. Or disappointment that she hadn’t crumbled at the sight of the box.
“I have to admit, I’m impressed you stayed hidden thislong.” He began circling her slowly. “I couldn’t figure out how you were able to stay so hidden. Became much clearer after we were able to figure out your boyfriend’s identification. Tsk, tsk, Morgan. Or should I call you Mercury?”
Mercury. Randall had found all her messages with Lincoln.
