Cassian’s warning suddenly echoes in my head.They aren't here to rescue a hostage.
Panic spikes in my chest. I scramble off the asphalt, diving into the dark woods to hide.
But the SUV rolls to a halt ten feet away. The headlights pivot, the high beams slicing through the trees and pinning me like a spotlight.
I push the terror down. I have nowhere to run.
“Police!” I scream, stumbling out of the trees toward the driver’s side, praying I'm right. “Help me! I’ve been kidnapped! Please!”
The window rolls down, and the interior light flicks on.
There are two men in the front seat. They’re wearing tactical gear—black vests, radios, earpieces. Soldiers or security.
The driver leans out. He’s a big man, thick-necked, with a buzz cut. A jagged white scar runs from his temple to his jaw, pulling his lip up into a permanent, cruel sneer.
He looks at me. He takes in the torn shirt, the mud, the terror, and he smiles.
“Help me!” I sob, grabbing the door handle. “I’m Iris Hale! My father is Judge Hale! Please!”
The man’s smile widens.
“Iris Hale,” he says, testing the weight of the name.
My knees almost give out. He believes me.
“Yes!” I cry. “He has me! He’s back there!”
“Calm down,” the driver says. His voice is rough, accented. “You’re safe now.”
He unlocks the door.
“Get in,” he says. “Your father sent us to find you.”
I yank the door open, but I don’t climb inside. I freeze with one hand on the frame, the rain soaking my back. Something in my brain—that animal instinct Cassian woke up—misfires.
The accent. It’s thick. Slavic.
Are you with Volkov?Cassian had asked.
I look at the man’s gear. There are no badges. No police insignia. No private security logo. Just black.
I look at his eyes. They aren’t worried. They aren’t relieved. They’re hungry. He looks at me the way a wolf looks at a rabbit that has run into its jaws.
“My father...” I stammer, taking a step back. “My father sent you?”
“That’s right,” the man says. His smile widens, showing gold-capped teeth. “He’s very worried. Get in the car.”
“Call him,” I say.
The man glances at the rearview mirror, his expression tightening. “We don’t have time for that, Miss Hale. We are in a hostile zone. The target is close.”
“Call him,” I insist, my voice trembling but rising. “Put him on the speaker. I want to hear his voice.”
The smile vanishes. The man’s hand drops from the steering wheel and moves to his lap.
“We need to leave now,” he says, his voice hard. “Before he comes for you.” He leans closer, the rain dripping from his buzz cut. “Get in the car, Iris.”
The tone has changed. It isn’t a rescue anymore. It’s an order.
