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“Maggie!”

Her name tears out of me before the emergency exit door finishes swinging shut. For one brutal heartbeat, the world narrows to the dark van parked along the curb, the open side door, and Maggie fighting with every ounce of strength she has while two men force her inside.

Her hair whips across her face. One hand reaches for the doorframe, fingers scraping against metal as she tries to hold on. Then one of the men drives his fist into her ribs.

Blinding rage blanks out every sound around me except her cry.

I run.

People scream behind me. Children cry. Parents shove toward and away from the exit at the same time. None of it matters. Ivy is crying my name from somewhere behind Luka, but I can’t look back. If I look back, I lose the van. If I lose the van, I lose Maggie.

The side door slams shut.

“Maggie!” I roar again, already moving through the crowd.

A man steps into my path with a gun in his hand. I hit him before he lifts the weapon. Bone cracks beneath my fist. He drops hard against the wall, and I take the gun from his hand without breaking stride. Luka appears at my side, his face grim, his weapon already drawn.

“Viktor has Ivy,” he says, breathing hard as we burst through the emergency exit.

“Keep her away from this,” I order.

“She’s secure.”

The van’s tires scream against the pavement as it shoots away from the curb. It clips the side of a parked sedan, shattering a mirror and sending glass across the asphalt. A woman screams from the sidewalk and jerks her child behind her.

Our SUV sits forty feet away with one of my guards already behind the wheel. Luka reaches the driver’s door first and drags him out by the collar.

“I drive,” Luka snaps.

The guard moves.

I climb into the passenger seat before Luka is fully inside. My hand is already on my phone. My thumb hits Roman’s number as the SUV surges forward hard enough to throw me against the seat belt.

Roman answers on the first ring.

“They have Maggie,” I growl.

Silence follows for less than a breath.

“Where?”

“Performing Arts Center. Dark van heading east from the rear exit.”

“Plate?”

“Covered.”

Luka takes the corner too fast, the SUV roaring across two lanes of traffic. A horn blares as a delivery truck brakes hard to avoid us. Ahead, the van weaves between cars, running the light at the intersection.

“Camera feed,” I tell Roman. “Now.”

“I’m on it.” His voice changes, directing men I can’t hear. “Enzo says there are two exit plans. River or airfield.”

“Which one?”

The van swerves around a city bus and cuts toward the wider roads leading out of downtown.

“Airfield,” Roman says. “He says Isabella keeps a private strip south of the city under a shell company.”