Selene’s heart stopped.
“What do you mean—taken?” Her voice cracked like glass under pressure.
Vincent didn’t answer right away. He just handed her the phone.
A security cam still image filled the screen: two men in surgical masks and tactical vests wheeling Darius out of the clinic. His body was limp, his wrists restrained. One of the men looked straight at the camera. Dead eyes. Smiling.
Underneath, the message:
“Don’t be late to your own funeral.”
The time stamp read thirty-five minutes ago.
Selene’s grip tightened so hard the phone cracked. “Where the f**k was the detail I posted?”
Vincent already had his other phone out, calling. “I put two of my best on that door—Arroyo and Linc. Neither’s answering.”
“Then they’re dead.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Or they were in on i
