Page 74 of Claimed By the Boss

We pull off the main road and into an industrial sector that sleeps uneasily at night. Warehouses sit in rows, their windows black, their lots empty except for rusted trailers and the occasional flicker of a security light. The address flashes across my phone from the tech. Right where the guard said.

“Kill the lights,” I order.

Alek flicks the switch and the SUV melts into darkness. We roll to a stop two blocks out, tires crunching once on gravel before settling. Engines cut. The night swallows us.

Doors open in near-perfect unison. My men fan out with rifles pressed tight to shoulders, their shadows long across the broken pavement. The air tastes of oil and brine. Somewhere in the distance, a tugboat sounds its horn. It rattles through my bones.

We split up. Two men peel off to circle the back, their boots barely whispering against the ground. Another pair cuts toward the south bay door. A third team moves for the roof. The rest hold the perimeter, eyes on every angle.

Alek stays with me, just like he always does. He checks his rifle once, then the pistol at his side, then gives me a quick nod.

We move together toward the east wall. The heater box rattles against the corrugated siding. A single security camera points toward the lot, oblivious to its own blind spot. I crouch, checking angles, watching for motion in the windows above. There’s nothing but darkness.

“Ready?” Alek whispers.

I slide the suppressor onto my pistol and chamber a round. “Yes.”

We ease against the wall, keeping to its shadow. My heartbeat slows, sharp and clean. Every sense sharpens. I can smell the cheap cigarettes of the guards inside. I can hear the scrape of a chair leg against concrete. I can almost feel Lyra’s presence through the thin metal sheet that separates us.

This is the last stretch. After this, nothing will keep me from her.

I signal to Alek. We stack at the service door. I pull a pick from my pocket, slip it into the cheap lock, and feel the pins click one by one. The cylinder turns. The latch gives. The door opens easily.

27

LYRA

The silence presses harder than the straps on my forearms. Every second that ticks by makes me question whether my plan worked at all. I keep replaying the conversation, running through every word I pulled from the guard, every phrase I nudged him into revealing. It wasn’t much. Just a few minutes of careful talk, a handful of details dropped here and there.

If anyone was listening, they might have caught the street name, the complaints about the heater, and the smell of the river. But what if they weren’t tuned in? What if the bug they planted isn’t even close to this warehouse? The odds were terrible, stacked against me from the start, and yet I had clung to that tiny hope like oxygen. Now, as the minutes stretch, I wonder if I’m suffocating on blind faith.

I shift in the chair and press my hands against the straps until my wrists throb. The skin is rubbed raw from trying to find slack that isn’t there. I know the buckles are too tight to undo without help, so I stop before I draw blood. My heart hammers against my ribs. If no one is coming for me, then I need to be smart enough to save myself.

So I start watching them more carefully. The men who come in and out, checking on me like I’m cargo instead of a person. I study their faces, their voices, the way they move. Some are sharp, their eyes scanning every corner of the room as if they expect a ghost to rise from the walls. Others are careless, leaving doors ajar, fumbling with lighters that take too long to spark. I can tell who is in charge, who follows orders, and who resents it.

I know my best chance isn’t with the men who bark commands. They’re too disciplined, too suspicious, too ready to act if something feels wrong. My best chance is with one of the weaker links, someone who is used to being pushed around. Someone who might like the idea of being told he’s worth more than the rest.

It doesn’t take long to spot him. He’s big, broad-shouldered, with hands like slabs of stone and a neck that disappears into his collar. He looks like he could break me in two if he wanted, but when I watch him a little longer, I notice something else. He’s always the one being told what to do. He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t look happy either. His jaw sets hard every time another man points at him like he’s a dog. He’s a soldier, not a leader, and he knows it.

I wait. Patience is harder than panic, but I force myself anyway.

Finally, the others drift away, one by one. The more senior men head off to smoke or to argue about supplies. The younger one with the thin voice vanishes down the hall. Eventually, the big one ends up alone with me.

I size him up. He’s dangerous in his own way, but I remind myself he’s simple, too. He’s used to taking orders, used to obeying, and maybe used to being ignored. That makes him vulnerable, not just to fists or knives, but to words.

I keep my tone as casual as possible, considering my circumstances. “When are they going to make you in charge around here, huh?”

His head jerks toward me, eyes narrowing in suspicion. For a second I think I have pushed too hard, too fast, that he’ll shut me down before I can even begin. But he doesn’t bark at me to shut up. He doesn’t threaten me. He just looks away, his mouth twisting like he isn’t sure what to say. That’s enough. That hesitation tells me there’s a crack in his armor.

I tilt my head, letting my voice soften, weaving in a hint of admiration. “It seems to me that you could run things a bit better than these other guys. That’s all.”

That gets him. His shoulders straighten. His gaze flickers back to me, curious now, even as he tries to hide it. I feel the smallest pulse of hope as I watch his defenses shift. He wants to believe me. He wants to hear more. So I keep going.

“You’re reliable, aren’t you? Every time something needs to get done, they send you. You’re the one hauling, moving, watching. If it weren’t for you, this whole place would probably fall apart.”

He grunts, a sound that isn’t quite agreement but isn’t denial either. I lean forward as much as the straps allow, keeping my voice steady and low, as if I’m sharing a secret meant just for him.

“Men like you should be the ones calling the shots. The others bark orders because they’re afraid. You don’t need to do that. You have real strength. The kind of strength that people should follow without question.”