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S ometimes I’ve wondered if Sara would be waiting for me when I finally got myself killed, which, according to Tanner, was only a matter of time, due to my “chronic dumbassery.” Looks like he might’ve been right, and that pisses me off.

It’s dark here. Quiet.

Don’t know why I was expecting angels; if a place like that exists, then it isn’t meant for guys like me.

I try to shift a foot, just enough to test my body—assuming I still have one. Serrated agony rakes a path from my toes to my knee and keeps going. My groan sounds like a zombie from a Scooby-Doo cartoon.

Wait …

I’m in way too much fucking pain to be dead.

Then, something rattles below me.

Chains?

Was I dreaming? I figured I’d fucked up and binged a bottle of vodka, but no… That asshole Dolph Larsson beat the shit out of me. There was a needle in my neck.

Now I’m here.

There are chains…

A door…

It’s coming together now, and?—

Fuck.

Panic hovers, but I can’t let it take over.

Victimology 101: the second you lose your shit, it’ll come right back and bite you in the ass. Before you know it, you’re one of those screaming blond chicks with the big tits who are the first to go in every low-budget horror movie.

“You’re awake.”

“What?” I twist around automatically. “ Ah, Christ .” A high-pitched wheeze squeezes out of me. That fucking hurt.

All I can do is lie here, panting, which doesn’t help, since my ribcage has apparently been turned inside out like a T-shirt.

Silence settles while I catch my breath. Then, just when I decide I was imagining things, I hear it again:

“Are you…okay?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Really? Does it sound like I’m okay?”

No answer.

At least the voice—the woman, wherever she is—has a sense of self-preservation. I’m not very chatty on a good day, and this is the opposite of a good day.

This is bullshit.

But I need to stay calm and let the analytical side take over.

First, I inventory my injuries. Several ribs are obviously broken, making it hard to take a full breath. My shoulder is sore as hell, but since I’m fairly sure it was dislocated in the fight, I suspect someone fixed it.

I’ll have to process that later. Moving on…

One eye is swollen shut, but I still have it, so that’s a positive. My toes are wiggling, which is also a good sign. Despite feeling like it’s been through a meat grinder, my ankle is likely just sprained.

Bad sign: there’s a cuff around it. That’s where the chains come in.

In conclusion?

I’m alive. And I’m screwed.

Wincing with every move, I manage to prop myself up on my good elbow. From there, I carefully push up until I can swing my legs over the side of the cot I’m on. Sweating and out of breath, I’m finally sitting up.

Now, assess the scene.

I’m in a small space, enclosed by four white walls with a vent near the ceiling. If the paint wasn’t chipped and worn, it would seem almost clinical. In addition to the cot, there’s a toilet and a sink. A small metal cage fits over a single lightbulb on the ceiling, like someone knew the first thing I would do is break it to use as a weapon.

They would be correct.

Then there’s the steel door with no handle, indicating outside entry only. Probably a keypad. Fancy. I look at the shackle around my ankle. It connects to a thick chain that’s bolted to the floor.

I press my fingers to my forehead. I’m not sure what happened after I almost ripped my foot off, or how I ended up on this cot. I don’t remember getting up from the floor.

But I do remember one thing. My eyes lift to the blinking red light in the corner where the wall meets the ceiling. Exhaling a hollow chuckle, I lift my middle finger.

Message received, motherfuckers.

Plenty of modern cameras can be planted invisibly, which means my captors want me to know they’re watching. I wonder if there’s sound…

None of these factors necessarily exclude your run-of-the-mill serial killer, but since I was brought here by Dolph, it’s safe to conclude this is the ring responsible for the disappearances of dozens of people.

Looks like I did it. I got inside.

Unfortunately, I came in on the wrong side. This is what I get for rushing things before I had a chance to?—

Beep, beep, beep, beep.

With a click and a whoosh, the door slides open. An older man stands in the frame.

Instincts screaming, my entire body reacts. My muscles coil, preparing to strike. There’s a good chance I’m looking at the person I’ve spent the past two years hunting.

This fucker’s going down.

Two measured steps bring him inside the room. Without testing the length of my chain, I know he’ll be just out of reach. “Oh good, you’re finally awake.” A look of perverse delight stretches over his face. “I’ve been dying to meet you.”

I refrain from telling him that’s exactly what he’ll be doing. Though I’d love nothing more than to rip this chain out of the floor and strangle him with it, I need to keep this encounter controlled while I evaluate the situation. There’s still more to learn.

“So nice to finally make your acquaintance.” He reaches into the pocket of tailored gray dress pants, his hand brushing some kind of hourglass trinket attached to his belt loop by a chain. It’s nearly the size of a cell phone. Fucking weird. A driver’s license materializes in his hand. “Mr. Ford.”

Cool relief washes through my chest. Thank God I remembered to switch wallets before I left—my cover hasn’t been blown. And since I’m still holding that card, I can decide how to play the rest until I know exactly what I’m up against.

My observation skills kick into high gear. I got careless with Dolph, but I won’t make the same mistake twice. Getting out of here is going to take logic and strategy, and that’s an arsenal I’ve spent my entire career building. Keeping my breathing steady, I file the details in my brain like it’s an old-school card catalogue.

Fine wrinkles and white hair indicate he could be in his late fifties or sixties. His jaw is clean shaven, his grooming meticulous. The most striking attribute, however, are his eyes—one eerily light, the other dark as coal.

His build is slight, but I have little doubt what he lacks in muscle is made up for in cruelty. And though he’s dressed expensively enough to rival any respectable mafia kingpin, I believe he’s something else entirely.

Curiosity flares in his light-colored eye as he watches me as closely as I do him.

Do I show no fear or act predictably? How would a typical man respond after being drugged, beaten, and abducted? He’d be afraid for his life. Confused. Asking questions and begging to be freed. I consider that for a moment…

Unfortunately, my mouth does what it wants sometimes, so I cross my arms the best I can with the fucked-up shoulder and stare him down. “Wish I could say the same.”

With a hint of amusement, he lifts the card like it’s a proper cup of tea and reads the name and address of my cover alias with all the interest of a stranger’s obituary. “Our mutual friend, Dolph, tells me you’re a freelancer, eager for work.”

I blink my one good eye like I’m bored, internally seething at the mention of Dolph, whose skin I would like to peel away slowly.

“As it turns out,” he continues as though I’ve answered, “I’m a businessman, and I happen to have a job you’re perfect for.”

“Lucky me.”

“Oh, no, I’m most certainly the lucky one in this scenario.” Dollar signs are practically glowing in this man’s eyes. “So many candidates have failed to fit the bill. You, on the other hand… Well, my client will be very pleased with you.”

“Flattering, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”

“And I’m afraid this isn’t a declinable offer, my friend. Apologies.”

“Got it. Who the hell are you again?”

“Oh yes, where are my manners?” Sliding my license back into his pocket, he lays one hand over his chest. “I’m the man who determines the amount of time you have left on this earth.”

“I thought that job was already taken. By God.”

He smooths his palms down a silver-pinstripe suit vest. “You’re in my domain; you live or die by my will. I’d say God is a fitting description, now that you mention it.”

“No, shit? That’s a mental disorder, you know. You and Charles Manson…deities in your own mind.” Disregarding the ache in my face, I force my lips to curl into a contemptuous smile. “In case you’re wondering, that never ends well.”

“Most people end up on their knees, begging for mercy sooner or later.” He looks so smug; I can’t wait to find out what it takes to rattle him. “We’ll see how long it takes you.”

“Since I don’t plan on reciting the Lord’s prayer any time soon, can you tell me what they call you on this planet?”

“Not today.” The mirth in his expression hardens.

“Ah, don’t feel bad.” I know I’m walking a fine line, but I can’t seem to help myself. “That can happen with advanced age. Let me know if you remember.”

“Dolph forgot to mention your delightful sense of humor.” Cocking his head, one side of his mouth rises as if he’s figured something out. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Sure, you do. Because of the God thing.” If I didn’t have broken ribs, I’d laugh.

“One doesn’t need omniscience to see murder in another man’s eyes. You think you’re going to be the one to kill me.” He takes one step forward, and I almost succumb to the temptation to rush at him and see if the chain will reach.

Almost.

But I know what will happen.

I ball my hands into fists, feeling the muscle in my shoulder twinge.

“You should save that spark for my client,” he continues. “He’ll be tickled pink by the challenge.”

“Sounds like a fun guy. Why don’t you tell me about him?” Once I cut the head off the snake, I’m coming back for his clientele.

The muscles around his mouth flicker. “As much as I’m enjoying our conversation—and trust me, it’s quite an entertaining departure from the usual begging and screaming—I merely stopped by to say hello. For now.”

“Right, you must be very busy torturing people and whatnot.”

“I suppose you’ll find out soon enough.” Those mismatched eyes scan me from head to toe. “In the meantime, if you need anything, Roger will be more than happy to lend his assistance.” When I raise my one good eyebrow, he looks over his shoulder. “Roger, do come say hello to our guest.”

A mammoth emerges from the shadowed hallway, his feet planted shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind his back, and his face devoid of expression. He resembles the ogre warrior I used to play in a video game.

He does not say hello.

“He’s shy,” the older man explains.

“Obviously.” I can only assume that Roger is the answer to the mystery of how I got from the floor to the cot last night. I have a vision of the ogre carrying me like a damsel in distress and decide I don’t want to know.

He’s just another obstacle to work around—after dealing with the cuff, the door, and the fact that I appear to be on camera twenty-four-seven. For now, I need to keep the conversation going. I still haven’t learned enough to help me come up with a plan.

“Wait.” I catch the man as he steps into the hallway, making him pause. “This client of yours… Will I be meeting him soon?”

“Not just yet,” says the white-haired man. “But don’t worry, when the time comes, I’ll leave you a souvenir, of sorts. A parting gift. Then you’ll know.”

What the fuck does that mean?

Superiority oozes from his pores like an oil slick. His lip tips up a notch on one side.

I’ve seen too many of his type, these businessmen who prey on others. Devoid of empathy. They’re fueled by a narcissistic need to reach a goal, no matter who gets used or trampled in the process. They do it for the money, and because they can.

“Do get some rest,” he adds. “My client expects you in tip-top shape. And if there’s anything I’m known for, it’s my knack for acquiring the finest quality merchandise.”

My hands shake. I’m seconds from combusting, from incinerating this prison that’s held countless people like livestock while they wait for someone to offer the right price. I can’t even respond, I’m so?—

Fuck.

Maybe I’ve had this coming, with my suicide missions and poor life choices. But if I’m right, and this is the man who took Sara…

Thinking about her trapped in this nightmare is almost enough to break me, and I can’t afford to let that happen.

If there’s anything the bullshit I’ve been through over the years has made me good for, it’s being the one to stand against these bastards. Someone’s got to, or it will never end. People will keep dying. Justice will never find them.

It has to be me.

“Feel free to wave at that camera up in the corner if you need attending to,” he says, heading for the doorway. “Roger will come right over.” His tone is polite, but I hear the underlying threat.

We’re always watching.

“You’re quite fortunate, you know. Most of us have no idea how we’ll leave this world. Here, you’ll know exactly when you can expect your time to end.” He glances over his shoulder before slipping into the hall. “Not even God does that.”

My career has been made up of many names. On the force, it was Porter. Then there’s my go-to cover, Nick Ford. Marcus Maury convinced a pedophile to drive three states over to a hotel where an underaged birthday present would be waiting.

Spoiler: I took him straight to a prison cell, instead.

Andrew Benson could source any illegal substance known to man, and Lyle, a.k.a. Phantom, was a killer for hire.

He was fun.

There’d been a smattering of other morally dubious characters, all serving to weed out the scum before the innocent fell victim. It’s a niche I fell into, courtesy of a childhood packed with guilt I had no control over—that is, if you listen to the department-appointed counselor I was forced to see—and I’m damn good at it.

I’m trembling, but not from fear. Usually, I’d be ten steps ahead of the situation, prepared for anything, and now I’m just…fumbling in the dark.

Pisses me off.

Under the protection of a cover, I’ve always felt free to do whatever needs to be done. I’m me, but not me. And as it turns out, Nick Ford is no less mortal than Isaac Porter.

Now that death seems imminent, I find I might actually care.

Go figure.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Nicholas? Are you there?”

Oh, right. There’s a woman on the other side of the wall. And since I’m in no mood to deal with people, she’s about to become the lucky recipient of my frustration. “I’m chained to the floor, what do you think?” My throat feels like I’ve swallowed glass.

“I just wanted to?—”

“I’m not interested in talking,” I snap.

It’s quiet for a long time before I realize that I’m an idiot. That woman over there is a resource, and since it’s unlikely my captor will be forthcoming, she might be all I’ve got.

Shit.

I’m going to have to be fucking charming, aren’t I? Where’s Tanner when you need him to interact with civilians?

It takes a rough couple of minutes to get to my feet, but I manage to drag myself a few steps over to the bare wall. After staring at it for a moment, I knock. “Hey.” There’s no answer, so I wait a minute and try again. Nicely. “If I scared you before, I’m…sorry.”

The last word sticks in my throat. In my opinion, sorry should be reserved for those rare moments when you genuinely commit to changing your behavior. Otherwise, it’s meaningless.

Since I hate commitments, it doesn’t cross my vocabulary often.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk.” Wariness laces her tone.

“Yeah, well, if you knew me, you wouldn’t take that personally.”

“It’s fine. No one’s in a good mood when they wake up over there.”

That brings up a lot of questions. And because I’m me, I don’t think before launching into full-interrogation mode. “Exactly how many people have woken up over here?”

“Um… I don’t know. Too many.”

“Are you with him?” I wish I could see her, so I’d know if she was lying.

“What?”

“The man who just left. Do you work with him?” There’s a reason I always played “bad cop” in the partnership.

“N-no. I don’t. I’m not…”

“Who are you, then? What are you doing over there?”

Silence.

I’ve probably given her whiplash.

With a long exhale, I put my back to the wall and slide to the floor. This is why I never dealt with witnesses.

“I’m not working with him,” she finally answers. “I’m just like you.”

“A fucked-up son of a bitch who just made the dumbest mistake of his life?”

She makes a small sound. More like a sob than a laugh. “A prisoner, Nicholas.”

“I’m not a pris—” Glancing at the cuff, I swallow the pointless rebuttal and concede. “Just call me Nick.”

Then she says the words that flip my world upside down:

“Hi, Nick. I’m Everly.”

The name settles in my bones. I’ve only heard it one other time, and I can picture the woman it belongs to as clear as if she were standing in front of me—some wannabe model who went viral on social media. The husband was shot, while the woman vanished into thin air.

Thing is, that happened two years ago, just before Sara was taken.

Fucking hell. I’d all but lost hope.

I suck a breath in through my nose, but my lungs don’t want to fill, and right now, the air is feeling pretty damn thin.

I just found Everly Cross.