Page 34 of Oliver (The Golden Team #7)

Emery

T he picture sat on the table like it had teeth.

Anthony Vale.

I didn’t remember his name. But the moment I saw his face, something cold pressed against my spine.

I took the photo into the quiet guest room, sat down on the bed, and let myself go still.

And then… it came back.

FLASHBACK – SOUTHERN EUROPE – BEFORE THE ABDUCTION

The sun was brutal that day. Bright enough to sting my eyes through my tinted goggles. The outdoor pool shimmered like a slice of polished glass, but I wasn’t thinking about the view. I was locked in—tight form, long reach, every lap a timed machine.

I hit the wall. Looked up.

And saw him .

At first glance, he looked like just another sponsor’s consultant. Clipboard in hand. Polo shirt tucked too neatly. Wire-frame glasses. That slight, too-polite smile.

He was watching me.

Not in the admiring way fans do. Not like he wanted a photo or an autograph.

This was different.

His gaze didn’t flinch when I looked back.

He just nodded once. Like he already knew me. Like I’d been chosen.

I remember asking one of the trainers afterward, “Who was that guy?”

He shrugged. “Someone from security. I think.”

But the way he said it felt off. Like he didn’t believe it either. Like he’d been told to say it.

The next day, the man was gone.

And two days after that... I woke up with a hand over my mouth and a needle in my arm.