Page 7 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost (Nightfall Syndicate #1)

six

Alina

M y fingers tap a steady rhythm on the steering wheel while I survey the darkened road ahead of me.

I've pulled over about block away from my destination, killing the headlights to avoid unwanted attention. The warehouse stands like a massive dark beast against the murky twilight.

The familiar pre-investigation cocktail of emotions floods my system—part thrill of the hunt, part healthy fucking terror.

A sharp knock on my window makes me jump.

"Jesus!" I gasp, recognizing Detective Wilson's stern face peering in at me.

I step out of the car, trying to calm my nerves. "Thanks for coming, Detective."

"This better be good, Bennett. What's so important and why are we meeting here?"

I take a deep breath. "I think I've stumbled onto something big. Remember that tech company, Apex Solutions, I was investigating for wage theft?"

He nods, his expression guarded.

"Well, I followed a lead to that warehouse over there."

I gesture towards the building. "It's supposed to be abandoned, but it's not. There's high-tech security, a modern keypad on one of the doors. Something's definitely going on in there."

Wilson's brow furrows. "That is odd. But it doesn't necessarily mean anything illegal."

"There's more," I press on. "When I was investigating, I ran into a man. He... he caught me snooping around."

"What?" Wilson's voice sharpens. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

I shake my head. "No, not exactly. But he warned me off."

Wilson's eyes narrow. "What did this man look like?"

I hesitate, the memory of those piercing blue eyes flashing through my mind. "Tall, muscular. Blue eyes. The rest of him was covered. He moved like... like he was trained. Military, maybe?"

Wilson's jaw tightens. "Alina, I think you need to drop this story."

"What? No way!" I protest. "This could be huge. I can't just walk away."

"Listen to me," Wilson's voice low and urgent. "I've been tracking a case—three dock workers who disappeared last month after reporting suspicious cargo containers at Hunter's Point. Same area as your warehouse. The harbormaster found their boat, but no bodies. "

He leans closer. "The investigation got shut down after a call from someone at Apex Solutions. They've got connections to Judge Harmon and two police captains. That tech company you're investigating? Their tendrils reach into places that can make evidence—and people—vanish."

He trails off, but I can fill in the blanks. "All the more reason to investigate," I argue. "If something illegal is happening, I need to expose it."

Wilson runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "I'm worried about you, Alina. This isn't like your usual stories. These people, if they're who I think they are, they won't hesitate to silence you permanently."

Ice creeps through my veins, but I stand my ground. "I can't just let this go, Detective. You know that."

"Dammit, Bennett," he growls. "You're too stubborn for your own good."

"It's what makes me a good journalist," I retort, but my voice lacks its usual confidence.

Wilson sighs heavily. "Look, promise me you won't do anything rash. Let me dig around, see what I can find out through official channels."

I nod, but we both know it's an empty promise. Something about this whole situation feels off. My stomach churns and my palms grow clammy as my mind races, desperately grasping for a missing piece of the puzzle that dances just out of reach.

"I mean it, Alina," Wilson's voice softens. "Be careful. Whatever's going on here, it's not worth your life."

I meet his gaze, seeing genuine concern in his eyes. "I'll be careful," I assure him, even as my mind races with possibilities .

Detective Wilson sighs and pulls out his car keys. "I'm heading back to the station. Go home, Alina. Get some rest. I'll call you the second I dig up anything solid."

I nod, but I know I won't be getting much sleep tonight. As Wilson climbs into his sedan, I can't shake the feeling that this case is about to blow wide open. My mind races with possibilities as his car disappears around the corner.

Standing outside my Honda, I wrestle with indecision. The warehouse looms behind me, its secrets calling out like a siren song. My fingers trace the cool metal of my car door as I debate my next move.

I should just go home. This is crazy. But what if the answers I need are right there?

My hand hovers over the door handle. In that moment of hesitation, everything changes.

A heavy weight slams into me from behind. The impact knocks the air from my lungs as I crash to the pavement. A sharp pop pierces the night, followed by the tinkling of shattered glass.

Gunshot. That was a gunshot!

My heart pounds against my ribs as adrenaline floods my system. Every nerve screams danger. I try to struggle, to push myself up, but a solid mass pins me down.

"Don't move," a deep voice growls in my ear.

I freeze. That voice. I know that voice.

It's him. The man from the warehouse.

Anger flares, overriding my fear. I open my mouth to tell him exactly what I think of his rough handling, but he cuts me off.

"Shut up and listen. I'm getting you to safety. Now. "

His words drift past me like smoke, barely penetrating the thick fog of my confusion. My brain struggles to process what the hell is happening.

One second I was weighing whether to head back home, the next was slammed against hard concrete by some guy I don't know while bullets fly over me.

I finally look up at the man's face—really look at him—and recognition hits me like a punch to the gut. Those eyes. That jawline.

"It's you?" The pieces suddenly click into place. The masked figure from the warehouse is the same damn person I crashed into at Gary Danko.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I stare at him, wondering how many other times our paths have crossed without my knowledge.

This can't be happening. Not to me.

But the rough asphalt digging into my cheek and the solid weight of the man on top of me are undeniably real.

"Can you move?" he asks, his breath hot against my ear.

I manage a jerky nod, my body still frozen in shock.

"On three, we're heading for my bike, it's just around the corner. Keep your body close to the ground. You ready?" His voice is tense but steady against my ear.

I want to argue, to demand explanations, but survival instinct overrides my curiosity.

"Ready," I rasp.

"One... two... three!"

The pressure on my back disappears, and I scramble upright, keeping my body low. My knees shake uncontrollably as if they've turned to jelly, but a rush of energy floods my system and drives me forward. The man grips my arm, practically dragging me toward an alley I hadn't spotted earlier.

Another pop sounds and something whizzes past my ear. I flinch, a strangled yelp escaping my throat.

Oh god, oh god, oh god. This is really happening.

We turn the corner and a sleek black motorcycle appears in the shadows. The man thrusts a helmet into my hands, then swings his leg over the seat. The engine snarls to life as he steadies the bike.

"Get on," he barks over the rumble.

My heart hammers as I clumsily clamber onto the back, the helmet wobbling in my grip. His muscular form fills my vision as I settle behind him, the leather of his jacket rough against my palms. The bike vibrates between my thighs, ready to bolt.

"Put it on. Now," he barks. As soon as I have it on, we speed away from the curb, tires screeching.

"What the fuck is going on?" I demand, my words shaky but fueled by fear and rage.

My arms tighten around the stranger's waist as he leans into another turn, the motorcycle tilting precariously. His muscles flex beneath my grip as he maneuvers expertly through traffic.

The wind whips strands of hair across my face, but I can't loosen my hold to try to tuck them back into the helmet.

"Someone wants you dead," he shouts over the roar of the engine, not taking his eyes off the road ahead.

"No shit," I snap, gripping his waist tighter as he accelerates. "Why?"

He glances back at me. "Because you're looking into things that powerful people don't want anyone to know. "

My mind spins, trying to process everything that's happened in the last few minutes. The attack, this man's timely intervention, the implications of his words. It's too much, too fast.

This is fucking crazy.

The wind whips past as we speed through the city, my arms locked around this stranger's waist. My mind races faster than the motorcycle, trying to make sense of what just happened.

Suddenly, we veer off the main road onto a quiet side street. Before I can catch my breath, he kills the engine and hauls me off the bike.

"Hey!" I protest as his hands roam over my arms and legs. "What are you doing?"

"Checking for injuries," he grunts, his touch clinical and impersonal.

I shove him away, anger flaring. "I can check myself, thank you very much. Stop manhandling me like some caveman!"

His eyes narrow. "I just saved your life. A little gratitude wouldn't kill you."

"Gratitude?" I sputter. "You knocked me to the ground and kidnapped me!"

"I prevented you from getting shot, and you came willingly," he counters. "And now I'm taking you somewhere safe."

"Like hell you are," I snap. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

He crosses his arms, looking infuriatingly calm. "Get back on the bike."

"No." I plant my feet, chin raised in defiance .

His jaw clenches. "Either you get on willingly, or I'll throw you over my shoulder and put you there myself."

"You wouldn't dare," I hiss.

He takes a menacing step forward. "Try me."

We glare at each other. Part of me wants to run, to get as far away from this infuriating man as possible. But a small voice in the back of my mind whispers that he might be right. Someone really did try to kill me.

"Fine," I growl, stomping back to the bike. "But this doesn't mean I trust you."

"Noted," he says dryly, swinging his leg over the seat.

I hesitate, still fuming. He looks over his shoulder, expression hardening.

"Get on, or I leave you here for your attackers to find."

My blood runs cold at the thought. Swallowing my pride, I climb onto the back of the motorcycle.

"I hate you," I mutter as I wrap my arms around his waist.

His chest vibrates against my arms.

Is he fucking laughing?

The rumble passes through his body into mine, where we're pressed together on the motorcycle. The sensation only irritates me more.

My jaw clenches as he replies, "I can live with that."