Page 1 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost (Nightfall Syndicate #1)

one

Alina

" I f I'm risking trespassing charges for a dead end, I swear to God..."

I squeeze through a gap halfway up the chain-link fence surrounding the abandoned Chimera Tech warehouse. My jeans snag on a jagged edge, and I pause to free myself before dropping to the gravel on the other side.

The fading daylight casts long shadows across the property as fog rolls in from the bay, wrapping the three-story concrete structure in a ghostly shroud. Perfect timing—just enough visibility to work, but dim enough to provide cover.

I pull my camera from my messenger bag, snapping a few shots of the exterior. Professional habits die hard, and documentation is everything in my line of work.

The place looks abandoned at first glance—broken windows, graffiti-marked walls, overgrown landscaping— but something catches my trained eye. The loading dock area shows subtle signs of recent use. The concrete is swept clean despite surrounding debris, and the tire tracks in the gravel look fresh.

Walking the perimeter, I note other inconsistencies. The chain on the front door isn't rusted like it should be after years of exposure. Several security cameras hang at strategic points, their casings newer than the building's weathered exterior.

This place is trying too hard to look forgotten.

"What were you onto, Jenny?" I whisper, my chest tightening as I remember her funeral. The closed casket. Her mother's hollow eyes. The official story about a carjacking gone wrong that never sat right with anyone who knew her.

I check my phone, pulling up the encrypted files I recovered from Jenny's cloud backup.

Her last investigation had focused on Paradise Elite Escorts, but buried in her financial notes were quarterly payments from Chimera Tech to offshore accounts.

Payments that started three months before their public bankruptcy filing.

Moving closer to the building, I spot boot prints in the mud near a side entrance. Recent.

Someone's maintaining their abandoned status a little too carefully.

I duck under a window, staying in shadow as I continue my circuit. Sticking to the tall weeds provides cover, though my hiking boots sink slightly in the damp soil. The smell of salt water mingles with industrial chemicals and something else—a cleaning agent? In an abandoned building ?

A laugh bubbles up in my throat, though there's nothing funny about this situation.

Of course, criminal enterprises use industrial-grade cleaners. Can't have evidence lying around.

The east side of the building reveals more discrepancies. A section of fence recently repaired. An air conditioning unit humming quietly nearby despite the "power shut off" signs plastered across the front entrance. A loading dock door with gleaming hinges.

I'm not imagining it. This place is operational.

My foot catches on something, and I stumble, barely catching myself before face-planting into a thorny bush.

"Shit," I hiss, rubbing my ankle. "Real professional, Bennett."

The near-fall reveals something I might have missed otherwise—a sleek electrical box partially hidden behind overgrown bushes. It's newer than everything else around it, with a digital keypad glowing faintly in the gathering darkness.

Crouching down, I study the setup. Not your standard power distribution box. This is high-end security equipment, the kind used to monitor perimeters and control access points.

Why would an abandoned warehouse need state-of-the-art security?

I pull back branches, wincing as thorns scratch my arms. The tetanus shot in my medical record better be up to date.

"Time to see if this hunch is worth the tetanus risk."

I snap a few pictures of the security box, then stare at the warehouse with renewed interest. I need to get inside .

Moving along the perimeter, I find what I'm looking for—a first-floor window with loose boards. Unfortunately, it's about nine feet off the ground. Inconvenient for nosy reporters, but probably not part of the security system.

I scan the area and spot several wooden crates stacked haphazardly nearby. Most look rotted, but they might support my weight long enough to reach the window.

Dragging the sturdiest-looking crates beneath the window, I arrange them in a precarious tower. The wood creaks ominously as I test the bottom crate with one foot.

"This is a terrible idea," I mutter, but climb anyway.

The stack wobbles with each movement. Halfway up, a corner of one crate crumbles beneath my boot, sending me lurching sideways. My heart leaps into my throat as I windmill my arms, barely regaining balance.

Fuck!

Once steady, I continue my ascent, finally reaching high enough to grip the window ledge. The boards covering it move easily under pressure. Has someone loosened the nails? I push one board aside, creating a gap large enough to squeeze through.

Inside, the warehouse is a study in contradictions. A thick layer of dust coats abandoned machinery and fallen ceiling tiles, exactly what you'd expect. But footprints cut clean paths through the dust, and certain areas look mysteriously well-maintained.

I drop silently to the concrete floor, camera ready. The musty smell of decay fills my lungs, but underneath it lingers something else—that antiseptic scent of industrial cleaner .

In the corner sits an ancient desk covered in cobwebs—except for one drawer that appears to be recently handled. Across the room, cables run neatly along a wall to a section that was painted not too long ago.

What the hell is going on here?

Most telling is the faint electronic hum pervading the space. Not the normal sounds of an abandoned building or distant traffic, but the unmistakable signature of active equipment.

My phone confirms what my instincts already know—there's Wi-Fi here. A locked network labeled simply "CT-Secure."

I start questioning myself. Am I making connections that aren't there? Seeing patterns because I want to find meaning in Jenny's death?

But no—the wrongness of this place prickles my skin. Abandoned buildings don't have power and active security systems. They don't have clean paths through dust or freshly painted sections. They definitely don't have password-protected Wi-Fi networks and shouldn't feel... occupied.

I trace my finger along a clean seam in the wall where the paint doesn't quite match. This is exactly the kind of incongruity Jenny would have noticed. She had an eye for details others missed.

Jenny wouldn't have given up. Neither will I.

A door at the far end of the room stands slightly ajar, revealing darkness beyond. Something about it draws me forward—maybe the fact that it's the only door in the space without a layer of dust on the handle .

I check my watch. I've already spent ten minutes inside. The smart play is to leave now, process what I've found, and come back better prepared.

But deeper in the warehouse, something glints in the beam of my phone's flashlight—something metallic and decidedly out of place among the abandoned equipment.

Just five more minutes. Then I'm out.

I move toward it, stepping carefully to minimize noise. My footsteps echo softly on the concrete floor as I move through the vast, empty warehouse. The immense space seems to magnify every tiny sound.

A distant metallic clang echoes through the building.

I freeze.

I'm not alone.

I hold my breath, straining my ears. The metallic clang echoes again, followed by what sounds like a door closing. Footsteps. Multiple sets.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

My pulse pounds in my ears as I duck behind a rusted conveyor belt. The beam of my phone flashlight cuts out instantly as I shove it into my pocket. Darkness engulfs me, save for the faint glow filtering through broken windows.

"Security sweep complete on levels one and two," a male voice calls from somewhere in the building. Professional. Authoritative.

Someone's using this warehouse actively, not just dumping old junk here.

I need to move. Now. But first, I need to see what caught that reflection.

Staying low, I creep toward the metallic object I spotted earlier. My eyes adjust to the darkness, revealing outlines of machinery and support columns around me. The warehouse floor is a maze of abandoned equipment, but certain pathways have been cleared.

"What the hell?" I whisper, fingertips brushing against a smooth metal panel embedded in the wall. It's a keycard reader—brand new, with a tiny green light blinking steadily.

My journalistic instinct screams that I've stumbled onto something big.

This is the same gut feeling that got Jenny killed.

I snap a quick photo with my camera, making sure the flash is off. Hopefully I'll be able to enhance it later.

The keycard reader is military-grade, not the cheap security you'd find at a storage facility. Someone's invested serious money to keep whatever's behind this door hidden.

The footsteps grow louder. Boot soles against concrete, purposeful and measured. My fingers brush against the pepper spray in my pocket. Small comfort against whoever employs professional security in an abandoned warehouse.

The sound of approaching voices sends me scurrying deeper into the warehouse, away from my entry point.

If they find me here...

"Motherfucker," I breathe as my shoulder clips something hard. Pain blooms across my collarbone.

The farther I move, the stranger the warehouse becomes. One hallway looks completely abandoned—dust-covered floors, peeling paint. Turn a corner and suddenly I'm in a pristine corridor with fresh paint and clean floors.

It's like two different buildings merged together .

My fingers trace along a wall, feeling the transition between neglect and maintenance. Someone's creating a facade, and they're doing it methodically.

A door stands ajar at the end of the corridor. Beyond it, white fluorescent light spills onto the floor. Every instinct tells me to turn back, but my feet carry me forward. Just one peek.

I ease up to the doorway, peering through the crack. My breath catches.

Inside is a fully operational monitoring station. Three large screens display what can only be security camera feeds of the building's exterior and various interior sections. A uniformed guard sits with his back to me, tapping at a keyboard.

This is a professional operation. Sophisticated.

My hands tremble as I back away. Whatever's happening here goes beyond an escort service. This is organized, funded, and dangerous.

My foot scuffs against an uneven spot in the floor and I freeze.

Move, Alina. Now.

Adrenaline surges through my system as I turn and hurry down the corridor, my senses heightened to painful clarity.

Every shadow seems to shift, every sound amplified.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears as I navigate back toward my entry point, careful to step where the dust has already been disturbed.

"East corridor clear," a voice calls from somewhere behind me.

They're sweeping the building .

I duck behind a column as a beam of light sweeps past. Sweat trickles down my temple. My breathing sounds impossibly loud in my head.

When the light passes, I continue moving, trying to recall the twists and turns that led me here. Left at the broken machinery. Right at the collapsed shelving. Straight past the old office.

The window I entered through should be just ahead. I can make out the faint glow of streetlights filtering through.

Almost there...

A shadow moves across my peripheral vision, and I freeze.

Time's up.

The shadow solidifies into a massive form moving with impossible silence for someone so large. I press my back against the wall, holding my breath. Maybe if I don't move—

He emerges from the darkness like a phantom, faster than any human should be able to move. One second the space before me is empty, the next I'm airborne.

The impact knocks the wind from my lungs as my back slams against the concrete floor. My camera clatters away, skidding across dust-covered cement. Pain radiates from my shoulder blades through my hip.

This is how I die.

My attacker pins me with devastating efficiency, one knee between my legs, the other pinning my right arm. His large hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing yet, but the threat is unmistakable .

I stare up at my captor, heart hammering against my ribs. He's dressed in tactical gear—black from head to toe, face obscured by a mask. Only his eyes are visible.

And what eyes they are. Striking blue, almost luminous in the low light. Cold. Calculating. Assessing my every movement.

Get it together, Alina. Look for an escape.

I try to twist free, but his grip tightens just enough to make me freeze. His massive hands immobilize me completely, the solid weight of him pressing me into the floor.

"Don't," he warns, voice so low it's almost a growl.

That single word shouldn't affect me the way it does. A rush of heat floods my body, pooling low in my belly. My breath catches—not from fear alone.

What the actual fuck, Alina?

His scent surrounds me—sandalwood and something untamed—a masculine essence that makes my pulse quicken despite the threat. My body responds with a mind of its own, nipples tightening beneath my shirt, breath for reasons that have nothing to do with survival.

This is NOT the time. He could literally kill you right now.

I try to focus on escape routes, on self-defense moves, on anything but his weight against me. The way his thigh presses between mine. The controlled power in the hand at my throat.

What the hell is happening to my body? I'm getting hot for someone who could literally end my life in seconds. Talk about fucked up priorities, Alina.

His head tilts slightly, studying me with those piercing eyes. In our struggle, my hoodie has fallen back, revealing my face to the faint light coming through the dirty windows.

Something changes in those blue eyes—a flicker of... surprise?

His grip on my throat adjusts, thumb pressing against my pulse point, and my life literally in his hands.

I lie beneath him, stunned not just by the threat but by my body's shameful response to it, unable to form a single coherent thought.

When he speaks, his voice is deep, dangerous. "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?"