CHAPTER 7
The doors of the V8-770 hissed, a sharp exhale of pressurized air that sounded far too much like a sigh of relief.
I didn't move immediately. I sat there for a heartbeat, my gold eyes squinting as they adjusted to the sudden flood of high-intensity LED light.
My hand drifted down to the blade tucked into my boot. The cold steel was a comforting weight against my skin.
It was the only honest thing I had left in this space. Outside, the garage was a cathedral of concrete, chrome, and bad intentions.
It was filled with rows of vehicles that probably cost more than the GDP of a small country, but I wasn't looking at the cars.
I was looking at the guns.
Six men in full tactical gear stood in a perfect semi-circle around my open door. Their movements were synchronized, silent, and professional—these weren't street thugs.
These were elite trained soldiers. The red dots of their laser sights danced across my chest and forehead.
Cute. They looked like tiny, lethal fireflies, and every single one of them was an invitation to die.
"Step out of the vehicle. Hands where we can see them," a voice commanded. It wasn't Damian. The voice belonged to a man with a jagged scar running down his neck and a voice rough enough to sand metal.
I stepped out of the car. I didn't rush, and I didn't stumble. I kept my movements fluid and slow, rising from the leather seat like a queen visiting her subjects rather than a thief caught in a cage.
My hood was still up, shadowing the black-and-white mess of my hair, but I kept my chin tilted just enough so they could see my eyes.
I wanted them to see that I wasn't afraid. "Nice welcoming committee," I remarked. My sarcasm was a reflex, the only shield I had that didn't require a permit.
"Do you guys do this for all your car thieves, or am I special?" The guards didn't laugh. They didn't even blink. They were statues with triggers.
"Your hands where we can see them," the scarred one rasped again, his finger tightening ever so slightly on his weapon.
I raised my hands, palms out, the universal sign for 'I'm behaving.' But my brain was already doing the math.
Six shooters. Three exits. The closest guard was four feet away—close enough to use as a shield if the shooting started.
I looked past the barrels, searching for the man who had turned his SUV into a remote-controlled kidnapping pod, but he was nowhere in sight.
Instead of a grand entrance from the boss, I got a heavy set of footsteps approaching from my left.
One of the statues broke formation. He was a mountain of a man and bad attitude, his face obscured by a tactical mask.
"Turn around," he grunted.
"Don't I get a drink first? A tour?" I asked, but I complied anyway, rotating slowly with my hands still high.
His hands were rough and practiced, lacking any shred of the "gentlemanly" hesitation Damian had shown earlier.
He patted me down with efficiency—shoulders, ribs, waist. When he reached my thigh, I felt his fingers pause at the weight in my boot.
Disrespectful, I thought, my jaw tightening. At least buy me dinner before you start reaching for my hardware.
He reached down and yanked. My custom-weighted dagger caught the light as he pulled it from its sheath.
It was a beautiful piece of steel—lethal, silent, and currently in the hands of a man who looked like he wanted to use it on me.
Fuck, I cursed internally. That blade had been with me through three continents and more 'problems' than I could count.
I watched him tuck it into his own belt like it was a trophy. I could have taken him then. I could have snapped his windpipe and used his body as a barrier before the other five could adjust their aim.
But I didn't. I kept my emotions locked down. I needed to see the layout of this place. I needed to see that bastard Damian first.
"Nice, right?" I chirped, staring at the back of the guard's head. "It's balanced for throwing. Don't cut yourself; the edges are meaner than I am."
He didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed my wrists and pulled them behind my back. The metallic snick of handcuffs echoed through the silent garage.
"Wow. Cuffed? I feel like a real criminal now," I muttered. "Is this the part where I get my one phone call? Because I'd really like to complain to the manager about the Uber service."
Silence. Total, professional silence. It was unnerving. Usually, when I talked this much trash, someone at least told me to shut up.
These guys were better than I thought. The scarred leader jerked his chin toward a set of industrial steel stairs at the far end of the garage.
"Move."
The guards closed in around me, a human cage of muscle and suppressed submachine guns.
We marched across the polished concrete, the sound of my boots hitting the floor like a death march.
As we reached the stairs, I looked up. The staircase led to a heavy, reinforced door that looked like it belonged on a vault.
Beyond that door lay God knows where—Damian's inner sanctum? a holding cell? or a shallow grave.
My heart did a single, heavy thud against my ribs. Not from fear, but from anticipation as I was led up the stairs.