Chapter 18
2221 Words
Ziana sits in the driver’s seat, her fingers tapping impatiently against the steering wheel. The sun dips low in the sky, casting long shadows across the quiet streets.
“Alright, Montana,” she mutters to herself, gripping the wheel tighter. “Get it together.”
She exhales sharply, turning the key in the ignition. The car rumbles to life, and she pulls onto the street, heading toward her old place. Memories flood back as she drives—late nights laughing with Leah, mornings spent nursing coffee on the tiny balcony, and the countless times Leah had been there to pick her up when life knocked her down.
But as Ziana pulls into the driveway, something feels... off.
The small, familiar house looks the same—except for the unfamiliar car parked in the driveway and the faint glow of a TV flickering through the curtains.
Ziana frowns, stepping out of the car. She grabs the spare key from her bag and strides to the door, her heart thudding. Sliding the key into the lock, she turns it—only for it to stop halfway.
“What the...?” she mutters, jiggling the key. It doesn’t budge.
Her frown deepens as she leans back, inspecting the lock. It’s newer, shinier—a clear sign it’s been replaced.
Ziana’s unease grows. Stepping back, she raps her knuckles on the door, her other hand unconsciously brushing against her pocket where she keeps her phone.
After a moment, the door creaks open, revealing a young woman with a pixie cut dyed a vibrant purple. She looks at Ziana with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
“Can I help you?” the girl asks, leaning slightly against the doorframe.
Ziana blinks, momentarily thrown off by the unfamiliar face. “Uh, yeah. I’m looking for Leah Salvador. She lives here.”
The girl tilts her head, her expression shifting to confusion. “Leah? Sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name. I’ve been living here for a couple of months now.”
Ziana’s stomach twists. “You’re sure? Blonde, about this tall,” she gestures, “really chatty?”
Tiffany shakes her head. “Nope. Sorry. It was empty when I moved in. You might have the wrong address.”
Ziana forces a tight smile. “Right. Thanks.”
She turns and walks back to her car, her thoughts racing. Leah’s number still isn’t going through, and now someone else is living in the house they shared.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, Ziana closes the door and sits in silence for a moment. Pulling out her phone, she dials Leah’s number again. The line rings twice before cutting to voicemail.
“Leah, it’s me,” Ziana says, her voice tight. “Where are you? Call me back as soon as you get this, okay?”
She hangs up and stares at the darkened screen, her mind spiraling.
“Where the hell are you, Leah?”
---
Meanwhile, in the dim light of his office, Mickey leans over a desk scattered with maps and surveillance photos. His phone buzzes, and he picks it up, scanning the message from one of his men.
**Agent:** *“She went to her old place. No sign of Leah. Leaving now.”*
Mickey exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Damn it, Ziana,” he mutters under his breath.
He pulls up another file, this one detailing Leah Salvador. Blonde, bright-eyed, and always smiling in the photos. Mickey had done his research. He knew how close Leah was to Ziana and hated seeing how much Leah’s disappearance was eating away at her.
“Keep an eye on her,” he texts back, his fingers moving quickly over the screen. “And find Leah. Now.”
As he sets the phone down, his jaw tightens. Ziana might hate him, but he wasn’t about to let her go through this alone—even if she didn’t know he was watching.
Ziana parks her car outside a small, dimly lit diner, the neon “OPEN” sign flickering like it’s barely holding on to life. She steps out, her boots crunching on the gravel as she heads inside. The bell above the door jingles, a sound she’s always found irritating, but today it barely registers.
Sliding into a booth by the window, she pulls her jacket tighter around her. The smell of stale coffee and fried food lingers in the air, but it does nothing to stir her appetite. She orders a burger and fries, barely looking up at the waitress who jots it down with disinterest.
Ziana leans back, her fingers drumming on the table as her mind runs circles around Leah’s disappearance. "Maybe she’s in some remote retreat? Or maybe she got sick of Seattle’s rain and bailed to California," she mumbles, the sarcasm in her voice biting.
But the pieces don’t fit. Leah wouldn’t just leave without a word. Not her.
The waitress drops off a glass of water with a thunk. Ziana stares at it for a long moment, then sighs. By the time her food arrives, she’s already lost her appetite. She tosses a few bills onto the table and walks out, leaving the untouched plate behind.
Back in her car, she grips the steering wheel and takes a deep breath. "Alright, Montana, pull it together," she mutters. After a moment’s hesitation, she starts the engine and begins the drive toward the military camp.
---
Mickey’s men follow at a safe distance, their dark SUV blending seamlessly into the night traffic.
“She’s heading toward the base,” one of them says into his earpiece.
“Keep your distance,” comes the calm, measured reply from their leader.
In his penthouse, Mickey stands by the window, staring out at the city below. His phone buzzes in his hand, but he doesn’t need to check it to know it’s an update on Ziana.
“She has no idea what kind of danger she’s in,” he mutters to himself.
---
The drive is uneventful until it isn’t. Out of nowhere, five SUVs surge onto the road, boxing Ziana in. Her stomach drops as she recognizes one of the vehicles—it’s the same one that chased her before.
“Seriously?” she snaps, slamming the brakes as the convoy screeches to a halt around her.
A man steps out of the lead SUV, his smirk illuminated by the headlights. “Nowhere to run this time, Princess,” he says, his voice dripping with mockery. “Get out of the car.”
Ziana’s hands tighten on the wheel. Her eyes dart to the rearview mirror, the side mirrors—there’s no escape.
“Princess?” she mutters under her breath. “God, could he be any more of a cliché?”
When she doesn’t move, the man’s expression hardens. He strides forward, yanking her door open.
“Didn’t your mother teach you to listen?” he growls, grabbing her arm.
Ziana reacts instinctively, kicking out and catching him in the shin. He swears loudly, but she doesn’t stop—her fists fly, her nails scratch, her heels stomp down on his foot.
“Get off me, you psycho!” she yells, struggling like a wildcat.
But it’s no use. He’s stronger, and when he realizes she won’t go quietly, he headbutts her. Pain explodes in her skull, and the world tilts as her vision blurs.
“Damn stubborn woman,” the man mutters, hoisting her limp body over his shoulder. He tosses her into the backseat of his car like a rag doll and slams the door.
The SUVs peel out, disappearing into the night.
---
From a distance, Mickey’s men watch the scene unfold.
“Should we move in?” one of them asks, his fingers twitching over the trigger of his gun.
“Negative,” the leader replies, his voice clipped. “Tail them. We need to know where they’re taking her.”
As the convoy speeds off, one of the agents pulls out his phone and dials Mickey.
“Sir,” he says as soon as the call connects. “They’ve got her.”
For a moment, there’s silence on the other end of the line. Then, a loud crash—Mickey’s glass shattering against the wall.
“Where are they taking her?” Mickey’s voice is low, dangerous, and utterly calm in a way that makes the agent’s blood run cold.
“We’re following them now.”
Mickey doesn’t reply. Instead, he ends the call, storms into his room, and grabs his dragon mask and voice enhancer from their place on the shelf.
He stares at his reflection in the mirror for a long moment, his jaw set in determination.
“No more games,” he says softly.
The mask fits snugly over his face as he turns to leave.
Tonight, the dragon awakens.
---
The convoy weaves through the city streets, leaving behind the bright lights and heading toward the industrial outskirts. Mickey’s men follow at a careful distance, their SUV blending into the sparse traffic.
“Still got eyes on them?” the leader asks, glancing at the driver.
“Yeah, they’re headed toward the docks,” the driver replies, his tone tense.
The leader nods and pulls out his phone. He dials Mickey again.
“Sir, they’re taking her to the docks.”
“Stay close but don’t intervene,” Mickey orders, his voice distorted through the enhancer. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
He ends the call and steps into the elevator, his coat sweeping dramatically behind him. The mask glints under the soft light of the cabin, giving him an otherworldly, fearsome presence.
---
Ziana groans as she comes to, her head pounding like a drum. Her vision is blurry, but she can make out the dim interior of the car. The man from earlier is in the driver’s seat, humming an obnoxious tune.
“Great. Kidnapped by a tone-deaf psychopath,” she mutters under her breath, wincing at the pain in her forehead.
Her hands are tied, but she starts wriggling her wrists, testing the knots. Whoever tied them clearly wasn’t a Boy Scout—there’s enough slack to work with.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” the man calls from the front. “Nice of you to join us. I was starting to think I hit you too hard.”
“Not hard enough, apparently,” she snaps, her voice dripping with defiance despite the throbbing in her skull.
He chuckles. “Feisty. I like that. Makes breaking you all the more fun.”
Ziana suppresses a shiver, focusing instead on loosening the rope around her wrists.
---
Meanwhile, Mickey’s black SUV speeds through the city, the tension inside thick enough to cut. His driver glances at him in the rearview mirror, his usual stoic demeanor faltering.
“Boss, do we know how many men they’ve got?”
Mickey’s voice is icy. “Does it matter?”
The driver doesn’t reply, gripping the wheel tighter as he pushes the vehicle faster.
---
The SUVs arrive at a large warehouse by the docks. The air smells of salt and rust, and the distant sound of waves crashing against the pier adds to the eerie atmosphere.
The man drags Ziana out of the car, his grip firm but not cruel. “Welcome to your new home, Princess,” he sneers, gesturing to the rundown building.
“Wow, you really splurged on the décor,” Ziana retorts, glaring at him as she’s pulled along.
They enter the warehouse, where a few more men are waiting. A table is set up in the center, cluttered with weapons and papers. One of the men steps forward—a burly guy with a scar running down his face.
“Who’s this?” he asks, his tone wary.
“Insurance,” the man holding Ziana replies. “She’s got connections. Thought she might be useful.”
The scarred man studies her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he smirks. “Pretty thing like you? Yeah, I bet you’ll fetch a nice price.”
Ziana’s stomach churns, but she masks her fear with a sharp laugh. “You might want to rethink that. I’m not exactly low-maintenance.”
The men laugh, but their amusement is cut short by the sound of tires screeching outside.
“What the hell was that?” one of them mutters, reaching for a gun.
Before anyone can answer, the main door bursts open, and a figure steps inside. The dragon mask gleams under the dim light, and the voice that follows is deep, distorted, and terrifying.
“You’ve made a grave mistake,” Mickey says, his tone like the calm before a storm.
The room falls silent, every man frozen in place.
Ziana blinks, her mind racing. *What the actual hell?*
Mickey steps forward, his presence commanding and deadly. “Now,” he continues, his voice colder than ice, “let her go. Or none of you leave here alive.”
The scarred man recovers first, scoffing as he steps forward. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?”
Mickey tilts his head, the mask making the gesture all the more menacing. “Your worst nightmare.”
Before the man can react, Mickey lunges.
---
- Writer
