Page 109 of King of Praise

“What’s the play?” I ask Zeke, recognizing that while my instinct is to storm headlong into whatever trap awaits me—consequences be damned—a more measured approach offers better chances of success.

“You’re going to meet Francesca,” Zeke says simply. “Alone, unarmed, exactly as requested.”

For a moment I think I’ve misheard him. “That’s suicide.”

“It would be,” he agrees, “if you were actually going to be alone.”

Understanding dawns. “You’ve got something they don’t know about.”

A small, dangerous smile crosses Zeke’s face—the expression that has preceded some of our most audacious and successful operations. “She’s going to regret the day she underestimated me.”

When my phone buzzes with an incoming text—Tommy delivering the promised meeting location—I check it without comment, forward the coordinates to Seb, then pocket the device and look to Zeke.

“I’ve got coordinates. Industrial area east of downtown.”

Zeke nods, his expression unreadable to most, but clear as day to me after decades of friendship. It’s the look he gets when the odds are stacked against us, but a plan is taking shape in that strategic mind of his. The look that has preceded some of our most improbable victories.

As they continue making plans, a curious calm settles over me. Not the calm of acceptance or resignation, but the stillness that comes before unleashing hell. The quiet certainty of a man who has found his line in the sand crossed.

They’ve taken Naomi. They’ve threatened what is mine.

And for that, there will be blood.

I make a silent vow—one I have no intention of breaking. I will get Naomi back safely. I will eliminate anyone who had a hand in her abduction. And I will personally ensure that Tommy Moretti never threatens another woman again.

The storm inside me coalesces into something cold and deadly and utterly focused. The fear doesn’t disappear—I’m not foolish enough to believe I can banish concern for Naomi’s safety—but it transforms into something I can use, something that sharpens my capabilities.

As Zeke outlines his plan, as Seb and Eli prepare the equipment that will give us an edge, I feel myself slipping into a mindset I haven’t accessed in years.

They wanted the monster. They’re going to get him.

And God help them all when they do.

Chapter 29

Captive Revelations

Naomi

Pain throbs at the base of my skull, pulsing in sync with each heartbeat. The sensation draws me gradually back to consciousness, though I fight it at first. Some primal instinct warns that awareness will bring only more suffering.

But years of surviving Lucas’s abuse taught me that knowledge—even painful knowledge—provides power that ignorance cannot. So I force my eyes open, blinking against the disorientation as my surroundings slowly resolve from blur into harsh clarity.

There’s a concrete floor beneath me, stained with substances I don’t want to identify, along with gray, cinder block walls that could belong to any industrial basement or warehouse. A single bare bulb hangs from exposed wiring, casting sickly yellow light that does nothing to dispel the overwhelming sense of dread in this space.

I test my limbs, cataloging restrictions. Plastic zip ties bind my wrists behind my back, cutting into my flesh. Similar restraints secure my ankles to the legs of the metal chair I’m seated on. It forces an upright posture that makes my back ache. Nausea rises from the sickening tilt of the room before it steadies again.

Focus, Naomi. Assess. Adapt. Survive.

The mantra rises unbidden—words I repeated countless times during my marriage to Lucas, when survival required constant vigilance and strategic thinking. The familiar rhythm helps organize my scattered thoughts despite the throbbing in my skull.

Micah. He’ll be looking for me by now. The thought brings both comfort and fresh anxiety. I trust his capabilities implicitly but worry about what risks he might take to secure my safety.

A sound draws my attention across the room—a choked sob quickly stifled. I’m not alone in this prison. Another woman occupies a chair identical to mine, similarly bound and clearly terrified. As my vision adjusts to the dim lighting, recognition hits.

Sandra Hunt.

The sight of her creates such cognitive dissonance that for a moment I wonder if the blow to my head has triggered hallucinations.