Page 43

Kabir

I groaned.

Every inch of my body flaring with pain. Muscles stiff. Ribs aching. My head felt like it had been used for batting practice.

Fuck .

Where the hell was I?

I tried to move—but something jerked me back.

A hand gripped my jaw, forcing my head up with a sharp snap of motion.

I cracked one eye open.

A man stood inches from my face, his smile wide and unnatural. East Asian. Mid-50s, maybe. Neatly combed hair. Wire-rimmed glasses perched too perfectly on the bridge of his nose. His suit hung awkwardly on him—expensive but a size too big, like it belonged to someone else.

Fake charm, real menace.

“Good morning, Kabir!” he chirped, his Chinese accent sharp but cheerful.

It hit me immediately.

“Gao Ling,” I rasped, barely managing the name. An educated guess. But the flicker in his eyes told me I was right.

I forced my gaze to scan the room.

A hotel room, by the look of it. Bare walls. Peeling wallpaper. Dim light. A single window boarded from the outside.

And behind Ling? Four masked guards.

Each armed. Each watching me like I was already dead, and they were just waiting for the go-ahead.

Memories surged.

Me—driving back to the apartment from Romano estate.

Packing my shit.

Making the long drive from Arlington to New York City.

Back to Blackthorn Security.

I never made it, did I?

I squeezed my eyes shut. Tried to focus.

I recalled entering the NYC borders.

The crash.

My eyes snapped open.

Shit.

Someone had crashed into my car on the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge.

Ling was still grinning like a goddamn cartoon villain, but before he could keep talking, his phone rang. He snatched it from his jacket pocket and turned away, pacing.

“你说什么？你找不到它?” (What do you mean you can’t find it?) he barked in sharp Mandarin. I couldn’t understand a word.

His voice rose, shrill and venomous.

“他们杀了他!” (They fucking killed him!)

A pause.

“我不在乎，我要知道那个装置在哪!”

(I don’t care, I want to know where the device is!)

Another beat. More listening. His shoulders tensed.

“别说乱话！只有你找它，才跟我说话。” (No. No. No. Don’t talk to me again until you have it.)

He hung up violently, muttering something low under his breath, then turned back to me.

The smile was gone now. And that was worse.

Because a smiling Ling was a performance.

But a silent one?

That meant the show was about to start.

Ling turned back toward me, wiping the sweat beading on his forehead. And quickly spun back around.

He adjusted his tie—more for show than comfort—and crouched slightly, hands on his knees like we were just having a casual chat.

“Where is it?” he asked, a menacing tilt to his head. “The fusion. Crazon-Sentrix. I know you didn’t destroy it.”

I smiled through the pain. “You’re right. I didn’t.”

His eyes lit up. “Then tell me.”

I said nothing.

His expression didn’t even change before the punch landed.

Straight into my ribs.

I gasped—my body folding as fire tore through my side.

Fuck .

They were probably already broken.

The crash had cracked them. This just shattered whatever was left.

I leaned forward, struggling to breathe, but kept my face blank.

Behind him, the four guards didn’t move. Not a twitch. Just shadows with guns.

Ling paced now, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief this time, that looked too expensive for someone who sweat like a faucet.

He looked nervous. No—desperate.

That made me smirk.

He didn’t like that.

“Where is your team?” he hissed. “Squad Six—where are they hiding?”

I lifted my head, blood in my teeth.

Then shook it.

That earned me a punch to the face. Fast. Hard. My head snapped to the side.

Pain bloomed behind my eyes, but I laughed—low and broken.

I turned back to him and spat a mouthful of blood straight onto his face.

It hit his cheek and dripped down his jaw.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

Just pulled out his handkerchief again and wiped the blood off with quiet disdain.

“You think you are winning?” he said. “You think this is over?”

I didn’t answer. Mostly because I was busy trying not to pass out.

He asked more questions—rapid-fire now. Where the device was. Who else had access. How far I’d spread the code.

I gave him nothing.

He gave me fists.

Every second he didn’t get answers felt like a small victory.

But my body was giving out. My ribs screamed with every breath. My vision tilted. Everything felt too loud and too far away.

Still, I stayed awake.

Then—bang.

The door behind me burst open.

It hit the floor with a heavy thud.

I flinched.

Ling did too.

The guards?

Didn’t move an inch.

For a second—just a second—hope surged.

Blackthorn.

Had to be.

Boots crunched over broken wood. Slow. Deliberate. Each step echoing like a countdown.

Ling held up a hand to signal his guards.

“Deal with it,” he barked. “Now!”

But they didn’t move.

My brows furrowed. Something was off.

The figure walked behind me, circling until he came into view.

Black tactical gear.

Black gloves.

Black mask.

Non-descript.

Not Blackthorn.

Not ours .

I blinked through the haze. My heart thudded once, hard.

Ling’s voice pitched higher now—panic cutting through his accent.

“Protect me!” he shouted. “Do your job!”

One of the guards made a hand gesture.

Not military.

Something uniquely theirs.

They blocked the unknown assailant. Something passed between them, before the four guards… walked past?

What the fuck?

One by one, they circled the man and walked out of the room.

Ling froze, watching them go, his mouth hanging open.

“No. No . What are you doing? Come back!”

The masked man didn’t stop.

Didn’t speak.

Just lunged.

The first blow cracked Ling’s shoulder with a sickening snap.

Ling screamed.

He tried to run, but the man grabbed him, pulled him back like a ragdoll, and drove his fist into his face—again, and again, and again.

Ling hit the floor. The masked man straddled him.

Ling coughed blood, spitting broken Mandarin.

“This will not make a difference,” he choked. “My death would accomplish nothing.”

The man tilted his head. Slowly. Menacingly. Like he was studying him.

Then, barely audible, he whispered something into Ling’s ear.

I couldn’t make it out. But Ling’s face went pale.

And then—one final punch.

Sickening.

Wet.

The sound of bone collapsing.

I blanched at the sight. Ling’s skull—collapsed, broken, half of his face gone. Blending into the carpet beneath.

The man stood, breathing steady, like he’d just taken out the trash.

My vision narrowed. The edges went black.

I saw him turn toward me.

Walking. Calm. Unhurried.

A blur of shadow and silence.

Then—blessed darkness.