Page 59 of The Maverick

Jesse crossed his arms. “You’re too close to this.”

“Exactly why I won’t hesitate.” Hawke buckled the thigh holster around his leg, his sidearm snug against his hip. He strapped a slim multi-tool against his lower back, slid a tactical blade inside his boot, then grabbed a lock bypass kit just in case.

Reed glanced up. “You really think she’s still alive?”

Hawke didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. “I know she is.”

The compound loomed gray and unassuming at the edge of a derelict industrial block. Fenced in, padlocked, with nothing but a handwritten sign warning off loiterers and scavengers. The perfect place for a coward to play out his fantasy.

The sky was black and low, clouds heavy with impending rain, but Hawke didn’t feel the cold. His focus tunneled as he moved through the side perimeter, bypassing the lock in seconds. No alarms triggered. Just silence and the hum of fluorescents overhead.

He stalked down the narrow lane between storage buildings, boots silent on cracked asphalt. No footsteps. No voices. But with every step closer, his pulse pounded louder.

Unit 43B.

The one with fresh tire marks out front.

He pressed a gloved hand against the door. Cool metal. No sound from within. But something… shifted.

The air wasn’t dead. It pulsed like breath. Like life.

Vanessa.

He pulled the override lock, slid the bolt free, and eased the door upward inch by inch.

The overhead bulb flickered once… then held.

And Hawke saw red.

She was there.

Chained at the wrists. Suspended just enough that her toes barely touched the ground. Stripped to a black camisole and leggings, bruises blooming faint across her collarbone, her head lolled slightly… but when she lifted it?—

Those eyes—fierce, bright, alive.

He stepped inside, and her voice was rough but steady. “Took you long enough.”

Jesus Christ, she was stalling.

Hawke scanned the room. Dungeon replica. Custom-built. Gear and staging pulled from the scene of her first published book. He recognized the details—he’dreadthem.

And that sick bastard had recreated it.

“Miles?” he asked softly, eyes locked on hers.

“Gone,” she said. “Went out the back. I told him I needed water. He said I’d earned it.”

Hawke moved fast. Crossed the distance in five strides, hands on her shackles. “Color, Vanessa.”

“Green.” Her voice cracked, but she lifted her chin. “I’m still here.”

“I see that.” His jaw clenched. “And I’m going to end this.”

She blinked once, as if she wanted to believe it, but couldn’t quite hold on. “He thinks he’s in the book.”

“I know.”

“He says I made him into a villain.”

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