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Chapter Eighteen: Nathan

T ime was running out to get me out of FBI custody.

I was still dizzy, the clinic meds coursing through my veins when they came for me. Two bulky guards, all muscle and no talk. I pushed off the thin mattress, but my legs were noodles. They gripped my arms, a vice on either side, and hauled me up. The corridor spun a little less each step we took.

"Where to?" I croaked, voice like gravel in a tin can.

Silence. Just the echo of our footsteps bouncing off the cold walls.

The processing room was sterile and bright, too bright. One of the guards peeled my shirt off. It stuck to my back where the bruises had started to heal. I winced, but the pain was a dull roar in the back of my mind. They had me strip down to nothing, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the steel mirror bolted to the wall.

I was a canvas of black and blue.

Fuck .

"Turn around," one guard barked.

I complied, wincing as his hands ran over my ribs. Each touch was a jolt of pain, confirming what I already suspected—a couple of them were probably cracked. I bit down on my lip, tasting blood, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing me flinch any more than I had to.

"Spread your legs," came the next order, cold and impersonal.

I did as I was told, feeling every bruise protest the movement.

The search was thorough, invasive, leaving no part of me untouched or unexamined. It was just another way to remind me who was in control here, another way to try and break me.

"Done," the guard announced, his voice void of emotion.

"Good," I said, my own voice rough, "Because you're not my type."

There was no laugh, no reaction. Just the sound of my clothes being tossed at me—an order to cover up and get ready for whatever came next.

Dressed again, such as it was in the worn jumpsuit that barely clung to my bruised body, the guards didn't bother with niceties. Cuffs snapped around my wrists, the cool metal an unwelcome bite after the invasive search. Then came the shackles, a harsh clang of finality as they closed around my ankles.

The whole thing felt like overkill; I could barely stand, let alone make a run for it.

"Walk," one of the guards grunted, nudging me forward with his baton.

I stumbled forward, every step shooting pain through my ribs, feeling like a puppet with tangled strings. We didn't head back towards the cell block. Instead, we were moving toward the outside doors. My heart kicked against my chest—a futile effort, like a bird beating wings against a cage

"Where are you taking me?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. Abby…would she be able to find me? Did I even deserve to be found? No answer came, just the jingle of keys and the thud of boots on concrete.

A gust of cold air slapped me as the doors swung open, and I blinked against the brightness of the sun. They hustled me toward a nondescript white van parked by the curb. Before I knew it, I was being shoved inside, the interior dark after the brief encounter with daylight.

The door slammed shut behind me, and I took in my new companions—four guards clad in riot gear, looking ready for war rather than an escort detail . Their faces were hidden behind visors, their expressions a mystery. But it wasn't them that caught my attention.

There she was, sitting across from me like she was perched on a throne in some grimy back alley kingdom—Diane Hayes. Her smirk was like a slash across her face, and her eyes held that familiar glint of someone who played the game and knew she was winning.

"Nice of you to join us, Nathan," she said. I could only scowl back, the pain flaring in my side a sharp reminder of how we last parted ways.

"Missed me?" I shot back, despite the dryness in my throat.

Her laugh was short, devoid of genuine amusement.

"Like a hole in the head," she retorted, settling back in her seat with an air of casual indifference. The van's engine rumbled to life, and I felt the vehicle lurch beneath us as we pulled away from the prison. "Enjoying the accommodations in the clinic?"

"Beats getting worked over by your thugs," I grunted.

We rolled through the gates, the outside world a blur. I strained to see anything familiar through the front window, but all I got were flashes of gray and green. "Where are you taking me, Hayes?" My voice was hard, trying to sound tougher than I felt.

"Classified," she replied, her smirk never leaving her face. "You're not on the need-to-know list."

"Shouldn't I have a lawyer for this sort of thing?" I challenged, though my gut told me it wouldn't make a difference.

"Lawyer?" She laughed, short and sharp. "Nathan, you really think standard rules apply to you now?"

The van hit a pothole and my ribs cried out. I bit back a curse, glancing at Hayes. Her eyes were on me, like she was trying to read the pain on my face.

"Lawyer won't help you," she said, leaning back in her seat, casual like we were on some road trip. "You're not exactly innocent."

"Last I checked, everyone gets their day in court."

"Day in court?" She snorted. "Nathan, your situation's a bit beyond that. Think bigger."

I wanted to snap back, but with each jolt of the van, my body reminded me I wasn't in charge here. Instead, I watched her, trying to figure out what play she was making.

She knew more than she was telling me…and I was starting to believe she had an ulterior motive. I didn’t have anything to tell her that would be worth more than taking me down.

"Who's pulling your strings, Hayes?" I asked, hoping to get under her skin.

"Strings?" She grinned, revealing nothing. "Let's just say I'm not the only one interested in you."

"Sounds like you've got big plans for a guy you kept locked up."

"Plans change," she shrugged. "And you, Nathan, are adaptable. Or so I've heard."

I fixed her with a stare, ignoring the way my whole body ached. “You’ve been talking to my father,” I murmured.

Nobody reacted. The guards didn’t, Hayes didn’t. I didn’t think the driver or the guard in the passenger seat could hear me.

But I saw the look in Hayes’ eyes…and I knew I was in even more danger than I’d previously believed.

Because this was all part of my father’s game.

I knew my father had his claws deep in the criminal justice system, his influence running through the veins of the state and federal government like venom. I’d figured Abby’s old partner was crooked; it made sense that his supervisor would be, too. Especially since she’d taken her time with us, given Abby free reign to continue living with me when it was well outside of protocol.

It made it even clearer how hard it would be to escape my father.

“We’ll talk soon,” Hayes said. “Just need to get you somewhere secure.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but I wasn’t going to question her. Instead, I was going back through our conversations, counting myself grateful for the fact that I’d kept my mouth shut. If my father had orchestrated this whole thing, he’d done it because he wanted to know if I was involved with the insurgents…and I’d come out clean. Even after the torture, the solitary confinement, the beatings, I hadn’t broken.

I’d proven myself to Ba.

And when I got out, I would kill him.

The car slowed down, and it was only then that I saw any kind of reaction on Hayes’ face. She frowned, looking toward the bars between the passenger area and the driver’s seat. “What’s going on?” she asked.

"Sorry, Agent," the driver's voice carried a note of confusion, "the car in front just stopped. No clue why."

"Call them," Hayes snarled, her eyes locking onto mine for a moment, as if blaming me for this unexpected hiccup.

But before she could say anything else, chaos erupted all around us.

The sound of automatic gunfire shattered the silence, bullets pinging off the van's armored exterior. I felt my heart jackhammer against my chest, the sharp tang of adrenaline flooding my senses.

"Down!" one of the guards yelled, his hand pressing on my shoulder, pushing me toward the floor of the van.

"Shit," Hayes cursed under her breath, her composure cracking as she looked around, trying to make sense of the ambush. She reached for a radio clipped to her belt but seemed to think better of it, instead crouching low.

The driver floored the gas pedal, and we lurched forward, only for the engine to roar in protest as we hit something hard. More gunfire, closer now, and the unmistakable sound of motorcycles.

"Who the hell is it?" one of the guards asked, his voice tight, fingers white-knuckled around his rifle.

"Does it look like I know?" Hayes shot back, anger flaring in her eyes. She was clearly as blindsided as the rest of us.

"Hey," I called out, trying to get someone's attention while keeping my head down, "you gonna uncuff me so I can at least have a fighting chance?"

"Keep quiet," another guard barked, not even sparing a glance my way.

I wasn't privy to the plan, but whatever it was, it had gone south fast. And with the metal cuffs biting into my wrists and the taste of fear thick in the air, I knew one thing for sure.

My life was dangling by a thread, and these guys weren't going to be the ones to save it.

So I moved.

I leapt to my feet, hurtling toward Hayes and shoving her against the wall with my shoulder. She let out a hiss of pain–but I barely heard it before I was being tackled by the guards, beaten bloody with police batons. I felt another rib crack, another…

I’d just gotten out of the clinic at the prison.

This could very well be the end of me.

I saw it coming, felt my mother in the dark with me. She didn’t look so frightening now, soothing me, telling me it was going to be okay…

…then light .

Light, burning my eyes from the back of the van, gunshots louder than before.

The door was open.

I burst through it, falling into the dust. And there…holy shit.

It was an all-out brawl.

Men in suits fought with those in street clothes, Triad against Triad. I recognized one of my father’s men–then I recognized someone from a restaurant down the street from the Red Lantern.

This escape attempt had turned into a bloody battle, and I was the prize.

I hauled myself to my feet, still cuffed and shackled, but conscious enough to at least try to escape. This might be my last shot–and if I knew Abby, she would be somewhere in this mess, probably in the thick of it. I tried to make a run for it, stumbling, staggering.

Pain seared at the back of my head and my vision swam.

Ears rang.

I fell to the ground, wondering if I’d been shot. It had happened once before…but it hadn’t felt quite like this. No, this pain was in my head, pounding and screaming…

Diane Hayes walked around in front of me.

“Your father won’t let them take you,” she said, lining up her shot. I watched her cock her gun, point it at my head. “And if you’re with the insurgents…well, he said he’d rather see you dead.”

Fuck.

This had quickly gone from a prison break, to a battle…to an execution.

And now I was on the chopping block.