The elevator doors parted on the twelfth floor. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a pale, even glow across the carpeted hallway. My footsteps sank into the thick pile as I walked toward Helena's office. Glass walls framed her silhouette against the city skyline beyond her desk. Headset on, fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard in quick bursts.
She glanced up as I approached and raised one finger—wait just a second—then tapped a final key with emphasis. The headset came off. She motioned toward the small conference table in the corner, where a neat stack of folders waited beside a single coffee mug still steaming faintly.
"Come in, Raine. Take a seat."
The leather chair gave a soft creak as I sat. Papers rustled as she pulled a folder closer.
"So," she said, leaning back with arms loosely crossed. "You've had time to think it over."
"I have." I met her eyes. "I want the team lead position. I'm ready."
A slow smile spread across her face. "Good. I was hoping you'd say that." She slid the folder across the table. "Here's the formal offer. Salary increase, new responsibilities, direct reports. We'll begin the transition next week. I'll be right beside you every step."
I opened the folder. The numbers stared back—higher than I'd expected. A list of team members. A training schedule. It felt real. Solid. Heavy in a good way.
"Thank you," I said. "For the confidence. And for the support."
"You've earned it." She leaned forward slightly. "You keep your head when the phones are screaming. You read the fine print. You don't shift blame. That's rarer than you think. We need more of that around here."
I closed the folder. "I won't let you down."
"I know you won't." She checked her screen, then looked back at me. "We'll go over the handover plan tomorrow. For now, wrap up your current tasks. Take the rest of the afternoon to breathe. Maybe even celebrate a little."
I stood. "Will do. Thanks again, Helena."
She waved it off with a light grin. "Get out of here before I pile on more paperwork."
I left her office lighter than I'd entered. The hallway seemed brighter. A promotion. A real step forward. Kira would be proud when she heard. Assuming she could call without cutting short for work. I dropped into my desk chair. The inbox had grown another dozen messages in the last hour. I started sorting—priority, junk, follow-up. Routine took over. Fingers moved on autopilot. Mind drifted to the weekend. Maybe a quiet dinner when Kira got back. Maybe a real conversation about the late nights and the secrets.
My phone buzzed against the desk. Screen lit up. Mom.
A frown creased my face. She never called during work hours. Not unless something was wrong.
I answered. "Hey, Mom. Everything okay?"
Her voice came through sharp and urgent. "Raine, listen to me. You need to get out of the building. Right now."
The words hit like cold water. "What? I'm still at work—"
"I know. There's a car waiting outside. Black sedan. Driver's name is Paul. He knows you. Get down there. Get in the car."
"Mom, slow down. What's going on?"
"Your father went missing yesterday. We think he was taken. And you're next."
The room tilted. My free hand gripped the edge of the desk. "Taken? By who?"
"Not now. Just move. Paul will explain what he can. Go. Now."
Her voice cracked on the last word. I'd never heard her sound afraid before. Not like this.
"Okay," I said. "I'm going."
"I love you. Be careful."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone for half a second. Heart hammered against my ribs. Dad missing. Kidnapped. Me next. None of it made sense. But the fear in her voice had been real.
I stood. Jacket. Phone. Keys. I didn't bother shutting down the computer. Didn't say goodbye to anyone. Just walked—fast—toward the elevators.
People glanced up as I passed. Curious looks. I ignored them. The elevator doors opened. Empty car. I stepped inside and jabbed the lobby button.
Descent felt endless. Stomach twisted tighter with every floor. Dad missing. Taken. The words looped in my head. He was a carpenter. He built cabinets. He fixed porch steps. Who kidnaps a carpenter?
The lobby doors opened. I pushed through the revolving glass. Afternoon light hit hard. Traffic moved in slow rivers along the street. Horns. Engines. Voices.
A black sedan idled at the curb. Tinted windows. No markings. A man leaned against the driver's side—dark suit, short hair, arms crossed. He straightened when he saw me.
"Raine Chapman?"
I nodded once. "Paul?"
"That's me. Get in. Back seat."
I hesitated. "What's going on? My mom said—"
"Explanations later. We're late already. Move."
His tone left no room for argument. I climbed into the back. Leather seats. New-car smell. Door closed with a solid thunk.
Paul slid behind the wheel. Engine purred to life. He pulled into traffic without looking back.
I leaned forward. "Where are we going?"
"Your parents' house. 247 Nevergreen Terrace."
"That's… that's where I grew up. How is that safer than here?"
"Trust me. It is."
He accelerated through a yellow light. Buildings blurred past. I gripped the door handle. "Who took my dad? And why me?"
Paul's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. "I don't have all the answers. I got a call—off duty—saying pick you up fast because you might be in danger. That's the job. That's all I know."
"And you just… do it?"
"When the request comes from certain people? Yeah. I do."
The car surged forward. Traffic thinned as we left downtown. Paul wove between lanes with practiced ease. Too fast. Too smooth.
I watched the side mirror. A silver SUV kept pace two cars back. Then another—dark blue this time—slid in behind it.
"Paul—"
"I see them." His voice stayed calm. Too calm. "Hold on."
He floored it. The sedan leaped forward. Horns blared. We cut across two lanes. The SUVs followed, closing the gap.
My pulse roared in my ears. "Who are they?"
"Bad news. That's who."
Another car joined—black, sleek, aggressive. Three now. Matching speed. Matching turns.
Paul muttered under his breath. "They knew we'd be here. Planned."
He jerked the wheel. We swung onto a side street. Tires squealed. Buildings narrowed around us—warehouses, chain-link fences, fewer witnesses.
The lead SUV rammed our rear bumper. Metal crunched. The car fishtailed. Paul corrected hard.
"Brace!"
Another impact—side this time. Glass cracked in a spiderweb pattern. The world tilted. Spun.
Impact. Screeching tires. Shattering glass. Then silence—thick, sudden, wrong.
Pain bloomed across my ribs. My head rang. The car rested on its side. Paul slumped against the wheel. Eyes open. Unmoving.
"Paul?"
No answer.
Blood trickled from his temple.
Voices outside—sharp commands. Boots on pavement. Doors opening.
I dragged myself toward the broken window. Glass cut my palms. I ignored it. Crawled out. Rain had started—cold drops mixing with the blood on my hands.
Men in tactical gear fanned out. Weapons raised. Scanning.
One barked an order. "Fan out. No lethal force. We need him alive."
Another voice—lower, colder. "If he's dead after that crash, half the money's still ours."
I pressed against the wrecked sedan. Heart slammed against my ribs. No way out. No cover. Just rain and concrete and closing footsteps.
Then—a low growl of an engine. Tires biting pavement.
A motorcycle burst from the side street. Black. Sleek. Rider in dark gear, helmet down.
The bike slid to a stop between me and the nearest mercenary. Engine revved. Rider kicked the stand down and swung off in one fluid motion.
A woman's voice cut through the rain—sharp, familiar, furious.
"Back off. Now."
She pulled her helmet. Dark hair spilled free.
Kira.
My mind blanked.
She stepped forward. Sword—actual sword—gleamed in her hand.
The lead mercenary laughed once. "You're kidding."
She didn't answer with words.
She moved.
And everything exploded into motion.