Page 2 of Damian
I went cold. My last novel.Shadows Run Deep.I’d spent months researching trafficking routes, offshore accounts, dark networks that thrived in the shadows. I thought it was fiction. I thought I was being clever.
“You’ve got the wrong idea,” I whispered. “I don’t know anything. I just write stories—”
“You’ll come to us,” the man interrupted, his tone turning sharp. “Alone. Tonight. Or Ruby pays the price.”
The line went dead.
I stood there, shaking, staring at my reflection in the dark window. I should have called the police. I should have called anyone. But the thought of Ruby—the girl who still hummed when she did her homework, who still called me “Mo” like she was five years old—kept me from moving.
They had her. And if I didn’t go, I’d never see her again.
So I grabbed my keys. And I walked straight into their trap.
The warehouse smelledlike rust and gasoline. My wrists burned where the zip ties bit into my skin, my head still swimming from whatever they’d used to knock me out.
When I came to, I was on a chair in a concrete room. A single bulb hung above me, throwing shadows across thewalls. I jerked at my bindings until the plastic cut deeper, panic clawing its way up my throat.
Ruby. I came for Ruby.
A door creaked open. The man from the phone stepped in, tall and narrow, his suit pressed crisp like he hadn’t just orchestrated a kidnapping. He smiled at me, his thin, sharp features.
“Ms. Tate. Glad you could join us.”
I swallowed hard, forcing steel into my voice. “Where’s my sister?”
He tsked, circling me like I was a specimen under glass. “Safe. For now. That depends on you.”
I glared at him, ignoring the tremor in my hands. “I don’t know anything. I made it up. That’s what writers do.”
“Perhaps.” His smile widened. “But perhaps you stumbled too close to the truth. My employer doesn’t like attention. You will tell us what you know. Every scrap.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but the sudden crack of gunfire cut me off.
Shouts erupted in the hallway—sharp, panicked. Boots pounded. The man’s smile faltered for the first time. He barked an order in a language I didn’t understand, but it was drowned out by another blast—closer this time.
The door slammed open.
Smoke and dust spilled in, followed by a man who filled the doorway like a storm. Broad shoulders, dark hair, eyes like steel cutting through the haze. A rifle was braced against his shoulder; his movements were crisp and deadly precise.
He didn’t hesitate. Two shots, and the guards behind my captor dropped. The man in the suit scrambled back, cursing.
Then the stranger’s gaze snapped to me.
“On your feet, love,” he barked, his accent clipped, unmistakably British. “We’ve not got time for sitting pretty.”
My mouth went dry. “Who the hell are you? What do you mean? Sitting pretty.”
He moved fast, a knife flashing in his hand as he sliced through the zip ties. His grip closed around my arm, hauling me up. Heat radiated off him, steady and solid, in sharp contrast to the chaos behind him.
“The one keeping you alive.” His jaw tightened as his eyes flicked to mine. “Now move.”
I stumbled forward, half-dragged, half-running as he cleared the hall with brutal efficiency. Every motion was controlled, every bullet precise. Not a wasted second. I saw my carry-all and grabbed it.
By the time we burst out into the night air, my lungs burned, my legs shaking. He shoved me into the back of a waiting vehicle, slammed the door, and took the seat across from me as the engine roared to life.
Only then did he finally look at me fully, his gray eyes sharp enough to pin me in place.
“You nearly got yourself killed tonight,” he said flatly. “You go near them again, and you won’t walk out.”
