Page 54 of Love Under Siege

Relief floods through me, even if just for a moment. Connor’s the best tracker I know. If anyone can figure out where these guys went, it’s him.

“Thanks, man. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me shit, Sullivan. We’re in this together. Just hang tight, and I’ll be there soon.” He hangs up, and I feel a sliver of hope cut through the storm.

I turn to Morrison, who’s been listening to my end of the conversation. “You trust this guy?” he asks, his brow furrowed.

“With my life,” I answer without hesitation. “And Anya’s.”

Morrison nods, understanding. “Good. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

We hop into the car, and Morrison takes off toward the station. My phone buzzes again—it’s another text from Marissa. I ignore it for now. She’ll just have to wait. There’s only one person I’m focused on right now, and that’s Anya.

As we drive, my mind flashes back to the moment I saw her in the parking lot. That brief second when she smiled at me, before everything went wrong. The image is seared into my brain, and the more I think about it, the more I feel the panic rising in my chest.

I clench my fists, trying to control my breathing. I can't lose her. Not after everything we’ve been through.

"Jacob, stay with me," Morrison says, his voice pulling me back to the present. "We’ll find them. But I need you focused."

"I'm trying, man," I mutter, my jaw tight. "But every minute that passes, they’re getting farther away."

"We're not starting from scratch. We know what they look like. We know the area. And once your friend Connor gets here, we’ll have even more resources. We just have to keep moving."

I nod, though the anxiety is still clawing at my insides. I need to keep my head in the game. For Anya. For Lana. For all the people who’ve been dragged into this mess.

Twenty minutes later, we pull up to the precinct. Morrison leads me inside, and the first thing I see is a wall of surveillance screens, all showing different parts of the city. He nods toward the screens. "We’ve got the area surrounding the club covered. If they used a vehicle, we’d see it."

I can feel my pulse quicken as I stare at the footage. “Then what the hell are we waiting for?”

Morrison sits down in front of the main console and starts fast-forwarding through the security footage. Frame by frame, the parking lot, the streets—everything comes into view. I lean in, scanning every car, every person. Then, finally, we see them.

Two men, dressed head to toe in black, dragging Anya and Lana toward a black SUV. My heart pounds in my ears as I watch them force the girls into the vehicle, and then the SUV pulls out of the lot.

“There!” I shout, pointing at the screen. “That’s them! Can you track where the car went?”

Morrison nods, already typing away at the console. “The traffic cams in the area should help us. Let’s see where they headed.”

We follow the SUV’s path through a series of cameras, but after a few minutes, the trail goes cold.

“They turned off somewhere without cameras,” Morrison mutters, frustration in his voice.

“Damn it!” I slam my fist on the desk, feeling helpless all over again.

“Jacob, calm down,” Morrison says, his voice firm. “We still have leads. Your friend Connor will be here soon. And we’ve got a partial plate on the vehicle. It’s something.”

I know he’s right, but it doesn’t make the situation any less unbearable. Every minute that ticks by feels like a countdown to losing her for good.

I look out the window at the darkening sky, my heart heavy with the weight of everything that’s happened. Anya is out there somewhere, scared, and I can’t help but feel like I’m failing her. But I won’t stop. Not until I find her.

As I wait for Connor to arrive, I vow to myself—no matter what it takes, I’m bringing Anya home.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Anya

I wake up with a jarring headache, my vision blurred by darkness. As I try to bring my hands to my head, I realize they’re tied behind me. Panic sets in as I take in my surroundings, which are dimly lit and unfamiliar. I remember Lana was with me, and I call out her name softly. “Lana?” My voice echoes faintly in the dark, but there’s no response.

I try to make sense of where I am. The room seems to be cluttered with what looks like a workbench and scattered tools. I attempt to move my feet, but they’re also restrained by something—definitely not handcuffs, but the material feels like rope. I hear a faint groan to my right and my heart skips. “Hello?” I call out a little louder, the desperation in my voice making me choke up.

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