Page 53

"A tactical team would spook him," Isabelle says, spreading building schematics across the coffee table. "And we can't involve police—Christopher's got too many in his pocket."

"Then it has to be me." Dennis studies the layout he knows by heart. "I can get in without raising alarms. The day guard, he knows me."

"How will you know which unit they're keeping him in?" Jessica leans forward, eyes scanning the plans.

"Heat signatures show activity on the twenty-second floor," Isabelle reports, turning her laptop. "Two guards outside Unit 2201."

Dennis's throat tightens. Just three floors below his apartment. "There's a maintenance room on that floor. The electrical panels for that section are there." His fingers trace the route. "If I can cut power to that unit—"

"The electronic locks will default to open," Isabelle finishes. "But the guards—"

"I can fight." The words come out matter-of-fact. "Better than they’ll expect from Kim Industries' pampered heir."

Jessica's eyebrows lift—an expression so like Chris's it makes Dennis's chest ache.

"We'll monitor through security feeds," Isabelle says. "But you'll be on your own once you're inside. If anything goes wrong—"

"It won't." Dennis stands, already moving toward the door. Every minute they waste is another minute Chris is alone with his father's people.

"Dennis." Jessica catches his arm. When he turns, her eyes are fierce. "Bring my son home."

He nods once, determined. "I will."

The drive back to Sacramento passes in tense silence. Isabelle speaks rapidly into her phone, coordinating with her team, while Dennis mentally reviews the building layout. He knows every corner, every service corridor. He's lived there long enough that his presence won't even be noticed.

They never imagined the spoiled heir they dismissed would be their downfall.

"Ready?" Isabelle pulls up to the curb.

Dennis checks his phone one last time, making sure it's on silent. "Chris's father thinks he knows that building better than anyone." His hand closes around the door handle. "Let's prove him wrong."

The Oakview Heights lobby speaks in hushed tones of old money—Italian travertine and Brazilian rosewood, the kind of luxury for those who can afford to appear understated.

Dennis nods to the day guard who barely glances up from his crossword. Just another rich resident coming home during business hours.

Perfect. Dennis moves to the concierge desk, making small talk about a package he’s expecting while his eyes catch the maintenance key rack reflected in the polished stone behind the counter.

He’s always noticed the cameras’ blind spots—an architect’s instinct at work, honed from countless times walking in and out of the building. Three casual steps to the left put him exactly where he needs to be.

As the guard rummages around under the desk for delivered packages, Dennis’s hand drops casually to his side. "Actually," he says, checking his phone, "I think they might have delivered to my office instead." His fingers close around the key he needs as he turns, the motion seamless.

The elevator feels like it takes forever. Dennis's heart pounds against his ribs, anxiety crawling under his skin. He's trained for combat, sure, but never like this. Never outside of the cage or dojang with real guns and real stakes and his— Chris’s —life in the balance.

At the twentieth floor, he exits—two floors below where they're holding Chris. He takes the service stairs the rest of the way, footsteps silent on concrete.

Voices drift from around the corner.

Dennis peers past the edge. Two guards flank unit 2201, dressed in dark tactical pants and fitted jackets—private security trying to look professional. The shorter one scrolls his phone while his partner shifts, jacket falling open to reveal the holster at his hip. Both armed. Both bored.

The maintenance room lock clicks open. Inside, Dennis finds the electrical panel by touch. His fingers trace the circuit labels until—there. 2201. His hands shake slightly as he locates the unit's dedicated breaker. One deep breath. Then another. He can do this. He throws the switch.

"Lights are out," one guard calls. "Check the breaker room?"

"On it."

Footsteps approach. Dennis presses against the wall, pulse thundering so loud he's sure they'll hear it. All his training, all those careful movements practiced in safe spaces—now it has to work. It has to. The moment the first guard steps through, Dennis drives his elbow up into his throat. As he staggers, gagging, Dennis hooks his ankle and drops him face-first into the concrete floor.

The second guard appears in the doorway, gun already raising. Dennis's palm strikes upward, smashing the weapon into the guard's nose. Blood sprays. Before he can recover, Dennis grabs his wrist, twisting until the gun clatters free. The guard throws a wild punch that Dennis slips past, countering with a knee to the solar plexus that doubles him over.

"Sorry about this," Dennis mutters, then drives his elbow down between the guard's shoulder blades. The man crumples beside his partner.

Dennis retrieves the guns. His hands are steady now as he ejects the magazines and clears the chambers—just like Isabelle drilled him during the drive over, his fingers finding the releases without thought. He'd practiced until the movements felt natural, knowing he'd only get one chance to do this right.

The pieces clatter into separate corners as he disassembles all but one. The weight of the remaining gun feels foreign in his hand, but he slips it into his waistband anyway. Bluff or not, it might buy him a second if things go south.

He secures the guards’ wrists with reinforced zip cuffs, borrowed from Isabelle's supplies. After a moment's thought, he resets the breaker. No need to alert the whole building.

The electronic lock’s emergency release gleams green in the dark, still tripped from the breaker. Dennis pushes the door open, every nerve screaming.

A small stream of daylight spills through a gap in the curtain, catching on Chris's figure slumped in an armchair. His head hangs forward, chin to chest.

"Chris!" Dennis is at his side in two steps, fingers pressed to his throat. The pulse there beats steady.

Chris's eyes flutter. "Princess...?" His voice comes thick, drugged. "You shouldn'... be here..."

“Like hell I shouldn’t." Dennis pulls a small blade from his jacket pocket and flips it open. The edge glints in the dim light as he wedges it under the zip ties binding Chris’s wrists. He saws carefully, his free hand steadying Chris’s arm. The sharp plastic gives way with a harsh snap, leaving red marks on Chris’s skin. "Can you walk?"

"Mmmaybe." Chris's head rolls against Dennis's shoulder. "They shot me up with... something..."

"Okay, up you go." Dennis gets his shoulder under Chris's arm, taking his weight. "We're getting out of here."

They make it three steps before a voice from the doorway freezes them both:

"Well, well, well. Isn't this touching?"

A young guard's gun steadies on Dennis's chest. His eyes dart between them, uncertain despite his bravado. He’s young enough to still be performing toughness instead of owning it.

Dennis almost rolls his eyes—someone's watched too many action movies.

The guard's stance screams military training, his watch is a distinctly Korean luxury brand, and his accent is barely detectable except in certain consonants.

Dennis shifts, angling his body between the gun and Chris. When he speaks, it's in formal Korean, pulling rank with age and status:

"Your mother raised you better than this. To point guns at your elders? To help hurt someone's son? Did you know Lancaster killed his mother?"

The guard's eyes widen.

"Look at him." Dennis jerks his chin toward Chris's drugged form. "You want to be part of this? When Lancaster goes down for kidnapping his own son, you want your name in those reports?"

The guard's grip wavers. "I... I have orders..."

"Phone." Dennis's voice stays steady despite his racing heart. After the week he's had—press conferences, rescue missions, kidnapped boyfriends with creepy fathers and long-lost mothers returning from the dead—what's one more insane gamble? "Take it out. Slowly."

The guard fumbles his phone from his pocket, young face shining with sweat.

"Unlock it." Dennis keeps his formal Korean steady, authoritative. "You're what—twenty-two? Twenty-three? Still sending money home to your mother? Working 'security' for men like Lancaster isn't the answer."

The guard swallows hard, hands trembling as he opens the phone’s keypad.

Dennis nods curtly. “Good. Input this…” He watches the guard’s fingers type his number as he recites it. "When they find Lancaster’s son missing, you tell them he overpowered the others while you were investigating a noise. You understand? Then you text me—immediately—what Lancaster plans to do."

"Why would I—"

"Because I can get you legitimate, well-paying work—with opportunities for real promotions and a career you can be proud of. The kind your parents can actually be proud of. The kind that doesn't end with federal charges when Lancaster goes down."

Dennis feels Chris's weight growing heavier against him. They need to move.

"I have connections at every major firm in Sacramento. But you have to choose right now—help us, or go down with him."

The guard's thumb moves across his phone screen. A moment later, Dennis's phone buzzes in his pocket.

"Smart choice." Dennis switches to English. "Now delete that call log. When they check your phone—and they will—this conversation never happened."

Long seconds tick past. Then slowly, the gun lowers.

"Go." The guard steps aside. "Hurry."

Dennis half-carries Chris to the service elevator, mind racing. They need to move fast—before someone notices the guards in the breaker room, before Lancaster's other people arrive.

Chris's arms flop around Dennis's waist as he struggles to keep them both upright. His hand bumps against the gun in Dennis's waistband. "Is that you being happy to see me," he slurs, "or are you just happy to see me?"

"Please shut up and keep moving," Dennis begs under his breath. His heart's already pounding so hard he can barely think straight—he doesn't need Chris making the worst jokes in the world while they're running for their lives. Dennis tries to drag them to the elevator faster. It’s right there now, just a few feet away.

"You came for me," Chris mumbles against his neck. “Can’t believe you came for me, but you did, so I believe it, but I can’t believe it, but you did…”

They finally reach the elevator and Dennis slams the button, letting himself sag against the wall for just a moment as the doors slide shut.

"Of course I did, you dork, why wouldn't I?" A lump lodges in Dennis's throat, threatening to unleash days of panic and worry. His stomach lurches—he could quite happily spend the next hour with his head in a toilet, but that'll have to wait.

Dennis tightens his grip as the elevator descends. "Now please please please shut up and focus on walking. We're not safe yet."

The service elevator opens to the parking garage. Dennis adjusts his grip on Chris, who's fighting to keep his feet under him.

"Almost there." Dennis scans the concrete pillars, shadows deep between parked cars. "The PI's waiting—"

Footsteps echo behind them. Dennis spins, dragging Chris behind a column just as two more guards emerge from the stairwell.

"Check every level," one barks into his radio. "They couldn't have gotten far."

Chris's breath comes ragged against Dennis’s neck. The drugs are still hitting him hard—they'll never outrun anyone like this.

Dennis's phone vibrates. A text from Isabelle: LOADING DOCK. 2 MINS.

"Okay, change of plans." Dennis peers around the column. The guards are moving toward the ramp, checking between vehicles. "We're going to the loading bay."

"Can't..." Chris's knees buckle. "Too heavy..."

"Shut up, I've got you." Dennis hooks Chris's arm more securely over his shoulders. "You weigh less than the bamboo supports I keep having to redesign because someone's being picky about load distribution."

That draws a weak laugh from Chris. They edge along the wall, staying in shadow. Every footstep seems to echo. Every scrape of Chris's boots against concrete sounds like thunder.

The loading dock entrance is just ahead. Twenty feet of open space between them and safety.

A shout rings out behind them: "There!"

Dennis doesn't look back. He heaves Chris forward, half-dragging him across the exposed concrete. Footsteps pound closer. A bullet pings off the wall beside them—warning shots. These men might work for Lancaster, but they're not killers.

The loading bay door rattles upward. Isabelle's sedan—a nondescript silver Honda Accord—idles just beyond, Jessica in the passenger seat.

"Move!" Isabelle appears at the door, gun raised past them. Two sharp cracks split the air. The pursuing footsteps falter.

Dennis practically throws Chris into the backseat, diving in after him. Tires squeal as Isabelle floors it, the car lurching forward and speeding off.

"Status?" Jessica twists around, hands already checking Chris for injuries.

"Drugged," Dennis reports, pulling Chris's head into his lap. "But breathing steady."

"M'fine," Chris slurs. "Just... need sleep..."

"We're not going far," Isabelle says, taking a sharp turn. "Your father's Audi has a tracker. He's already at the safe house with a security team."

Isabelle’s calm confidence tells Dennis they’re not being followed.

"We’ve taken enough detours to lose anyone who might’ve been watching," she adds, glancing at him. "Your father’s team swept the area and locked down the house. We’re fine for now."

Something warm blooms in Dennis's chest. His father tracking the Audi isn't surprising—all Kim Industries vehicles have GPS. But his father actually following that signal, bringing security to make sure his son is safe… that feels new. That matters.

"Good." Jessica's voice carries steel. "It's time Christopher learns what happens when you underestimate a mother protecting her son."

Chris's fingers find Dennis's, squeezing weakly. Despite everything, his lips curve in that familiar smile.

"My hero," he mumbles, already drifting off. "Knew you'd... find me..."

Dennis threads their fingers together, throat tight. "Always."