Oliver’s hand found mine on the bar. To anyone observing, we were a couple sharing a moment. Only the tension in his grip gave him away.
“Do we leave?”
I considered it. We’d gathered almost nothing useful—just the confirmation that something had happenedhere and no one was willing to talk about it. Leaving now meant returning empty-handed, but staying meant operating blind against an unknown threat.
“Not yet,” I decided. “But stay close. Watch my back.”
“Always.”
We stepped away from the bar, threading through the crowd with the aimless drift of newcomers taking in the sights. I kept my posture relaxed and let my face assume an expression of mild curiosity. Inside, every nerve ending was firing.
The sensation didn’t fade. If anything, it intensified. We were being tracked, and the person doing it was adjusting their position to keep us in view. I caught myself trying to spot a face that appeared too often in my peripheral vision, but I saw nothing definitive.
We paused near a scene in progress and watched a woman bound to a spanking bench while her partner worked her over with a flogger. The crowd around them was attentive. I wasn’t.
If someone here knew who we were—knew we were connected to Kiernan—they could be anyone. The possibilities multiplied faster than I could sort them.
“Second level,” Oliver murmured. “Two o’clock. Man in the gray shirt. He’s had an eye on us for the past five minutes.”
I didn’t look directly. I let my gaze drift in that direction as though I were taking in the architecture. The observation level wrapped around three sides of the main floor, separated by a waist-high railing of wrought iron. I spotted the man Oliver had identified—middle-aged, forgettable face, standing with a drink in his hand.
“He’s a spotter,” I said.
“Working for someone else.”
“Yes.”
The question was who. And why.
We completed another circuit of the main floor, but with renewed purpose. I wanted to flush them out, force whoever was watching to reveal themselves, but they were too good.
Which meant we were being hunted, and I couldn’t figure out by whom.
“We should go.” Oliver’s voice was steady, but an edge ran beneath it. “We’re not going to get answers tonight, and we’re exposed.”
He was right. It was time to extract.
“Fire exit,” I said.
My hand found Oliver’s, and we quickened our pace as we walked through the crowd. The curtain in front of us was heavy velvet, and beyond it, I could see the green glow of an exit sign. We were ten meters at most.
Oliver pushed through the curtain first. I followed half a step behind into an empty corridor, already reaching for the push bar on the fire door. We made it three more steps.
The taser hit Oliver first. His body seized, and a strangled sound escaped his throat as he went down hard. I spun toward the threat, but a second set of prongs caught me in the shoulder before I could engage.
Electricity ripped through my body. Every muscle locked, and my legs buckled. The concrete floor rushed up to meet me, and I couldn’t even get my hands out to break the fall.
Footsteps approached. Three sets, maybe four. Voices I couldn’t process through the roar in my skull. Someone grabbed my wrists and wrenched them behind my back. Zip ties bit into my skin.
I tried to speak. Tried to fight. My body refused every command.
The last thing I saw before the hood came down was Oliver’s face, blood already welling from where his head had struck the floor.
Then darkness.
I woketo cold and the taste of copper.
The hood was gone. I blinked against dim, flickering light, trying to think through the fog. My arms and legs were strapped to a chair, and when I tested the restraints, the zip ties cut deeper into my skin. A groan to my left made me turn my head. The motion sent pain lancing through my skull. Oliver was beside me, also bound the way I was. Dark and dried blood matted the hair at his temple. He was conscious, his jaw tight, and his eyes were scanning the space around us.
