Page 160 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

It's not time to wallow in pity or get consumed by fear. I need to act despite the terror and do what must be done.

I can only think of one path forward. I send Declan a quick text:I'm okay, but change my deadline to Friday 11PM. If you don't hear from me by then, leave.

I start the car. The engine rumbles to life, indifferent to my internal collapse and the weight of what I'm about to do. Thedashboard clock glows 11:27 PM. By 11:45, sirens will be wailing toward the marina. By morning, Miller's death will be headline news across the country. By noon, Victor will know I've failed.

I have to get to him before then.

I pull out of the parking lot, driving on autopilot. The road ahead is a blur through eyes that won't focus. My head pounds with the rhythm of a single thought:Victor wanted Miller alive.

Chapter 49

SEAN

DARKNESS IS A FUNNY THING. You'd think after years in the military doing midnight extractions and then all the late-night security gigs that I'd be used to the disorienting void of darkness. But the suffocating black bag over my head is something else.

The vehicle jerks to a halt, tires crunching on what sounds like gravel. My shoulders ache from being wrenched behind me, zip ties biting into my wrists like tiny, persistent teeth. The air in the SUV has grown stale with the mingled scents of leather, sweat, and the metallic tang of what I can only assume is dried blood. Not mine. Yet.

The door opens next to me. "Out."

Large hands grab my arm as one of Victor's men yanks me from the vehicle. He smells like cigars. His meaty fingers dig into mybicep as he hauls me from the backseat like I'm nothing more than luggage.

My boot heels scrape against rough terrain. I clench my jaw from the throbbing pain in my ankle as the man forces me to keep up with his pace. I take inventory of my surroundings through every sense except sight. There's the distant hum of industrial machinery. The acrid burn of chemicals. The whistle of wind through a vast, open space. Somewhere nearby, metal screeches against metal like the sounds of manufacturing equipment.

Getting here by calling Victor had been easy enough. The temporary number he'd given me, the one I was supposed to call after asuccessfulmission, was answered on the first ring. I told the guy I needed to speak with Victor because I had something he wanted. That's all it took and the wheels were in motion. Eight hours later, I arrived at the Chicago O'Hare Airport and Victor's men picked me up and gave me my wonderful accessories. I'm now walking into what any rational person would call certain death.

The goon shoves me forward. Gravel transitions to concrete, the temperature dropping as we move from outside to in. The acoustics change. Sounds bounce off distant walls, suggesting a cavernous interior space. The chemical smell intensifies, layered now with familiar scents that tickle the back of my brain: gunpowder and metal and machine oil.

A weapons manufacturing facility, or maybe a distribution warehouse.

We pass through another threshold and a door slams shut behind us. The zip ties around my wrists are severed with a quick flick of what must be a knife. Blood rushes back into my fingers, bringing with it a parade of needles marching beneath my skin.

"Stand still," the guy grunts, and then the bag is yanked off my head.

The sudden brightness is an assault. I blink rapidly and my eyes water as they struggle to adjust. White spots dance in my vision, gradually changing into shapes and then details.

I'm in a small room with concrete walls and a single overhead light that feels like it's drilling straight into my skull. The space is sparse with just a metal table pushed against one wall, its surface gleaming with an array of tools that belong in a medieval torture chamber. There are knives of various sizes. Pliers. Something that resembles a cattle prod. A blowtorch.

I try not to think about how the blowtorch is used.

The entire room reeks of industrial bleach, the kind of chemical cleaner used to erase evidence and someone's existence.

Victor stands across from me in a black suit. His small frame somehow fills the space with the sheer density of his presence. Two hulking men flank him like twin gargoyles; their faces carved from the same expressionless stone.

I don't need to check behind me to know that the goon who brought me in is blocking the only exit. I do it anyway, aquick glance confirming what I already knew. No windows. No alternative escape routes. Just four walls, five men, and an assortment of instruments designed to extract confessions one scream at a time.

Victor studies me with those empty eyes—two black holes that swallow light. His expression reveals nothing. There's no anger, no satisfaction, not even the mild curiosity you might show an insect before crushing it beneath your heel.

"Alan is dead."

Okay, his voice reveals something: simmering rage.

"I'm assuming you're here to plead your case and tell me it was an accident?" he adds. "That you arrived, the women were already free, and they killed him."

I straighten my spine, ignoring how my muscles are already bracing for impact. This is it, the moment where everything changes. Where I either talk my way out of this room or die trying.

"No," I say with a level tone. "I'm owning the events that led up to it. It's my fault he's dead." I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch. "I knew running from you would be stupid, so I'm here to face the consequences."

Men like Victor hear excuses the way most people breathe air: constantly, inevitably, without really noticing anymore. Whatthey don't get often is the truth or respect shown through honesty rather than groveling.

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