So, it was daytime. But what day? Her brain spun. Why was she here? Who had taken her? She turned the knob on the only door. It spun freely in her hand. She pushed and pulled, but there were no buttons or deadbolts, nothing to unlock. The hinges weren’t visible, so it opened outwards, but the door was heavy duty steel, and kicking it only made her foot throb.
Her breath came hard and fast as she scanned the room desperately for something she’d missed the first time.
Think, Em.Slow down. Pressing her back and palms to the cool wall, she forced herself to go through several rounds of box breathing, waiting until her vitals had settled before taking stock of what she knew.
Even if she got out the window, it was a long drop to the hard floor, and the air vent near the ceiling was far too small for her body. Her only tools were the mattress—one of those foam ones that came vacuum sealed in the mail, so no springs—and a flimsy bucket.
She felt sick, memories of the morning after Trey’s assault rushing back. The confusion, the pain, the anger. The heartache. But this was something else. Someone had taken her, and she had no idea who or why. The last thing she remembered was talking to Jason in the parking lot at the funeral home.
Their conversation came rushing back and she dug her knuckles into her sternum to ease the ache. He’d made up his mind that she was fundamentally dishonest, and nothing she said could convince him otherwise. He’d thought her declaration of love—the first she’d ever made—was just another attempt to manipulate him.
Given his history, she could understand his reaction rationally, but her heart felt like it had been carved from her chest with a jagged blade.
Not that it mattered now. She had to shove all of her messy feelings into a locked box at the back of her mind and focus on getting the hell out of here. And, maybe equally important, who’d taken her.
Yes, okay, the man in the parking lot wearing Allen’s name badge had abducted her, but who was behind it?
Renfro was dead. Could Byron or someone from Renfro’s circle want revenge? Seemed like a stretch. Of course, she’d helped bring down dozens of powerful people over the last few years, but the Night Herons took great pains not to be connected to the investigations of the men they unmasked.
Facial recognition and spyware were making that harder, though. Had someone from her past managed to track her down? Unlikely, but not technically impossible. Getting caught had always been a risk.
Now, she needed to get free. She hiked her skirt and kicked the window, but her foot only bounced off, throbbing as she staggered backwards. The bucket wouldn’t be any help in breaking the window, since it was plastic. Unwilling to give up, she lifted the mattress, finding only a daddy longlegs spider and a dead fly before letting it drop. Placing the overturned bucket on the mattress, she could stretch just enough to push up an acoustic ceiling tile, revealing a corrugated-metal roof and no escape.
She paced the room for what felt like hours, cringing when she had to make use of the bucket, and finally sat on the mattress when hunger, thirst, and residue of the knockout drug—and disappointment at finding no way out—made her weak.
Fatigue had bowed her head when a faintclankingnoise made her snap to attention. Darting to the window, she peered around the frame and watched a tall roll-up door open. The metallic creaking sounds were heavily muted, making her think this upstairs manager’s office—or whatever—was designed to block out the sounds of a busy warehouse or manufacturing line below. Down on the floor, a white Yukon drove onto the rough concrete and parked as the door slid closed behind it with a muffledthump.
Emma’s pulse cranked up again as a white guy with brown hair slicked back into a man-bun exited the bloated SUV. The driver was built like a pro wrestler, all massive shoulders and thick thighs barely contained by chinos and a dark blazer. He removed a pair of mirrored Oakleys and pocketed them and the key fob as he stepped out of the vehicle.
A second guard—who could pass for the driver’s twin—must’ve been keeping watch at the bottom of the stairs, because he appeared in her field of vision, striding to the passenger side to open the door. A third man stepped out of the vehicle with a blank-faced nod and immediately looked up at the window, his gaze clashing with Emma’s.
Recognition flickered in her brain. He was shorter than his goons, trim and fit in a green button-down and designer jeans. Receding brown hair and a perpetually sunburned nose did nothing to dim his good looks, but the familiar smug smile did.
Oh, shit. It couldn’t be.
Except, it was. Earl Price.
Fuck fuck fuck. How had he found her? How did he evenknowabout her?
Resisting the urge to step back or turn away, she maintained eye contact until he broke it, her heart thundering in her ears.
Earl had been a founding member of Vista Financial, a venture capital firm based in Chicago. The Night Herons had exposed his long history of luring in female entrepreneurs with promises of seed money, only to pressure them for sexual favors in return. Or, worse, to physically force himself on them during a private meeting.
He’d used threats, corrupt law enforcement officials, and big-money settlements with NDAs to silence the women—and his own former staff—while copious charitable donations ensured his reputation in the local community.
Emma’s team had unearthed enough evidence for the referring reporter to convince her bosses to let her investigate further. The resulting media coverage and lawsuits had ruined Earl, along with Vista’s other partners, who’d known of his disgusting behavior and done nothing to stop it.
Then Nolan and Dallas had finished the job by rerouting money from the Vista exec’s offshore accounts to a not-for-profit that invested in—and provided micro loans to—woman-owned small businesses in Illinois. Between that and the punitive damages he was ordered to pay, Earl had been cleaned out.
And now he had Emma at his mercy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
JASON SUCKED WIND, his heart pounding, feet slapping the asphalt as he ran flat out toward where his dad would be waiting.
He’d just ended a round of phone calls, starting with that prick, Saber, who demanded Jason fly to LA immediately if he wanted Emma back alive.
When he’d asked the asshole for proof—that he had her, that she was still alive—the man had done a quick live video that showed Emma standing in front of a blank wall, wearing a modest black dress, her feet bare, her dark hair disheveled. At least she’d been unbound. But the look on her face was absolute defiance. Chin up, blue eyes sparking, mouth flat.
