She couldn't see. The inside of the van was black, no light except the faint glow bleeding through the gap between the cab and cargo area.
The engine roared. Tires shrieked against asphalt. The van lurched into motion and Rachel crashed sideways into a steel wall, her shoulder taking the impact. Pain shot down her arm, bright and immediate.
Inside, the air was suffocating, thick with trapped heat and the metallic tang of oil and rust. No windows. The walls were bare steel, ridged and industrial. No seats. No carpet. Just cold metal flooring and wall-mounted anchor points. A vehicle designed for transporting cargo that didn't need comfort.
Rough hands grabbed her wrists, yanking them behind her back. Plastic bit into her skin as a zip tie ratcheted tight. Rachel flinched at the sharp pressure but swallowed the sound before it could escape. Don't give them anything. Don't show fear.
One of them moved closer. She saw the roll of duct tape in his hand a second before he pressed it against her mouth.
Rachel jerked her head back on instinct, but there was nowhere to go. Her spine hit the metal wall. He grabbed her jaw with his other hand, fingers digging into the hinge hard enough to hurt, holding her still.
The tape sealed across her lips with a ripping sound that echoed in the enclosed space. He pressed it down, smoothing it from corner to corner, making sure it stuck. The adhesive pulled at her skin. Her next breath had to come through her nose, shallow, panicked, not enough air.
She forced herself to slow it. In through her nose. Out through her nose. Don't hyperventilate. Don't give them the satisfaction.
The man sat back, satisfied with his work.
Her eyes adjusted slowly to the dimness. The two men sat across from her, silent and still as statues. Their faces remained hidden behind the balaclavas, only their eyes visible, cold, professional, empty. Neither one looked at her like she was a person. She was a job. A problem to be handled and disposed of.
Rachel’s breathing came fast and shallow. She forced herself to slow it, to think. Left turn, she felt it in the way her body shifted against the wall. Two rights in quick succession. A hard brake that sent her sliding forward, then acceleration again, the engine settling into a steady growl.
Just when her eyes were starting to adjust, one man reached forward and secured a blindfold around her eyes.
Rachel clenched her jaw, her pulse hammering against her throat. They thought she was alone. Thought she was vulnerable. Thought they could grab her off a residential street in broad daylight and no one would know until it was too late.
They didn't know about Ghost.
They didn't know he would be coming.
44
Ghost sat behind the wheel with his phone in his hand, staring at the screen. The truck's engine idled beneath him, a low rumble he felt more than heard, vibrating through the seat and up his spine. Beside him, Torch stayed quiet, his gaze tracking movement on the street. Pedestrians. Delivery trucks. The normal rhythm of a Tuesday morning in San Diego.
Except Ghost's gut was telling him nothing about this was normal.
His thumb moved across the screen.
Ghost:Hey beautiful, just checking in. You good?
He watched the message deliver. Watched the timestamp update. Watched the space where three little dots should appear if Rachel was typing back.
Nothing.
His jaw clenched. Rachel always responded. Even when she was deep in research, even when she had headphones in and the rest of the world disappeared, she'd see his name pop up and send back a heart emoji at minimum. Just to let him know she'd seen it.
His thumb moved again.
Ghost:I know you're working, but text back so I know you're okay.
Delivered. Read receipt showed she'd seen it.
Still nothing.
The pressure in his chest was building. That sick twist in his stomach he'd learned to trust over fourteen years of operations in places where ignoring your instincts got you killed.
He hit the call button. Listened to it ring once. Twice.
Straight to voicemail.
