There.
A thin strip of red satin flutters against the concrete, caught on the edge of a discarded program. Her hair ribbon. The one she’d worn during the finale walk-through—bright crimson against her dark waves, tied in that loose bow that bounced when she moved. She must have pulled it free on purpose. A signal. My girl is smart. She left me a breadcrumb.
I crouch, pick it up between gloved fingers. Something cracks open inside my ribs—sharp, painful, almost tender.
“Cass.” My voice is rough, barely controlled. I hold up the ribbon. “This is hers. She was wearing it on stage. Dropped it here deliberately. Means she’s alive, thinking, fighting.”
Cass’s jaw tightens. He takes one look at my face and understands. “Trail’s fresh. We can use it.”
I stand, tucking the ribbon into my pocket like it’s evidence and a talisman at the same time. “She’s counting on me. We don’t waste time.”
He nods, already keying his comms. “All teams, principal left a marker—red ribbon at loading bay exit. She’s mobile and aware. Corbett, get traffic cam feeds from the last ten minutes. Look for black panel vans heading east or south—most logical egress routes. King, you’re on satellite if we can pull it. Local PD, we need eyes on every major artery out of the entertainment district.”
A chorus of “Copy” crackles back.
I pace while they work, replaying every second. The confetti burst—shrapnel mixed in, non-lethal but meant to create panic. Rico Hale. Viola’s bassist. The betrayal stings worse than a blade. He used her sister to get close, to draw Indigo out. And I let the crowd separate us. My fault. If anything happens to her?—
Don’t go there.
Cass steps up beside me, phone to his ear. “Yeah, this is Rhodes, Heartline. We’ve got a confirmed 207—two adult females, high-profile. Suspect vehicle black panel van, partial plate unknown. Last seen exiting Gilded Hart loading dock approximately eight minutes ago.” Pause. “Appreciate it. Sending coordinates now.”
He hangs up, and turns to me. “PD’s pulling cams. They’ve got three possible vans matching the description leaving the area in that window. One’s headed toward the industrial park off Route 17—old warehouses, mostly abandoned. Good spot to hole up.”
My pulse kicks harder. “That’s it. Isolated, defensible, easy in and out. We move.”
“Already moving.” Cass gestures to the nearest SUV. “You ride shotgun. We breach as soon as we confirm location.”
The drive is a blur—sirens off to avoid spooking the kidnappers, but lights flashing, weaving through late-night Valentine traffic that parts like water when they see the convoy. I stare out the windshield, fingers clenched around the ribbon in my pocket. I can still feel her lips on mine from that last kiss backstage. Hear her laugh when she teased me about being soft. Smell her vanilla-and-citrus skin from the shower this morning.
I’m in love with her.
The words hit like a suppressed round—quiet, but they punch through every layer of armor I’ve built. I’ve never said it out loud, never even let myself think it fully, but it’s there, undeniable. She’s not just a client. She’s mine. And someone took her.
We pull up to the warehouse district twenty minutes later. Chain-link fence sagging, sodium lights buzzing overhead, rows of rusted metal buildings stretching into darkness. PD has the perimeter quietly surrounded—two cruisers blocking access roads, SWAT van idling two blocks back. Cass coordinates via encrypted radio while I scan the shadows through night-vision binos.
There. Third building on the left. Black van parked crooked near the loading door. Rear hatch still open a crack. Fresh tire tracks in the dust.
“That’s it,” I say, voice flat steel. “They’re inside.”
Cass meets my eyes. “We’ve got thermal showing four heat signatures—two stationary near the center, two moving. Likely guards. Principal and sister probably zip-tied or restrained.”
My hands flex around the rifle stock. “Entry plan?”
“Front and rear simultaneously. Flash-bangs through the side windows, then dynamic breach. You and I take point on the main door. Corbett and team sweep left flank. PD covers exfil.”
I nod once. No room for hesitation. No room for anything except getting her out alive.
We gear up in silence—plates, comms, breaching charges prepped. Cass hands me a flash-bang. “You good?”
“I’m good when she’s safe,” I answer. “Not before.”
He claps my shoulder. “Then let’s bring her home.”
ELEVEN
INDIGO
The warehouse reeks of rust and damp concrete, the air thick with dust that clings to my throat like a chokehold. Viola and I huddle together on the grimy floor, our backs against a stack of rotting crates, wrists still bound with those biting zip ties. My lingerie feels like a cruel joke now. I’m exposed, vulnerable, and every inch of my skin prickles with cold and fear. My heart hasn't stopped racing since the van doors slammed shut, a frantic drumbeat echoing the terror twisting in my gut. But underneath it, anger simmers, hot and defiant. These bastards took us. They took my sister. And if I get one chance, I'll make them regret it.
