Now I get a look at him through the glass panels that line the corridor.
Mid-forties. Clean-cut. Tailored suit. Not dressed like someone who should be in a newspaper office at midnight. His posture is too relaxed, his gaze too sharp. A man who has never been told no in a way that mattered. He lifts his head slightly, eyes scanning, as if he senses a shift in the building.
Rowan freezes.
I grip her elbow. “Move.”
She does, but her gaze stays glued to Randy. That second of hesitation costs us. The man’s eyes catch movement near the newsroom. He smiles. Slow. He knows.
Then he raises his voice, calm and clear. “Ms. Sands.”
Rowan stops dead.
I yank her forward. “Don’t.”
But she turns her head, eyes blazing. “You,” she whispers, like it’s a curse.
Randy’s face drains of color. “Rowan… what are you doing here?”
The other man steps forward into the light, hands open in an easy gesture. “This is perfect. Saves us time.”
I move without thinking, pulling Rowan behind me, my body going hard and ready. “Back up,” I say.
The man’s gaze flicks over me, assessing. “And you must be Hawthorne.”
I don’t answer. I step sideways, trying to angle us toward the exit corridor. Behind us, the two men from earlier are closer now, closing the distance in the newsroom walkway.
We’re boxed.
Rowan’s breath comes fast. “Randy, tell him to stop.”
Randy looks wrecked. His eyes flick to the men behind me, then to the man beside him. Fear wins. “I can’t,” he says, voice breaking. “Rowan, I can’t.”
Rowan’s face crumples for half a second. Then fury snaps it back into place. “You did this to me.”
Randy flinches like she slapped him. “They have me. You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” she spits. “You sold me.”
The other man sighs, as if we’re inconveniencing him. “Enough. Bring her.”
One of the men behind us moves first. I pivot and drive an elbow into his throat before he can grab Rowan. He drops, gagging. The second man goes for his belt. He’s got a gun.
I slam into him, shoulder first, knocking him into a desk. A monitor topples. Keys clatter. The noise explodes in the quiet newsroom. Rowan stumbles back, eyes wide, but she doesn’t run the wrong way. She stays behind me, exactly like she was trained.
The corporate man raises a hand. “Easy. We don’t need blood here.”
I don’t stop. I grab the second attacker’s wrist, twist hard, and his gun clatters to the floor. I kick it away.
He swings with his free hand. I duck, and drive a fist into his ribs, and he folds. But then a third presence moves in fast from the side. A man I didn’t see. He’s got a case. He snaps it open and hurls something at the floor. It’s a smoke bomb.
White smoke bursts out with a sharp hiss. My lungs seize as the air turns bitter and chemical.
Rowan coughs, choking. “Sin!”
“Eyes down,” I bark, grabbing her wrist. I pull her hard, aiming for the service hall. But shapes move in the smoke.
There’s too many of them. Someone grabs Rowan from behind. She screams, the sound cutting through me like a blade. I whip around, swinging blind. My fist connects with something solid. A grunt. Then another hand slams into my side. Pain flares. My vision swims. The gas burns.
