I woke to the shuffling sound of movements. A shift of air. A low hum. Cold leather brushing my arm. My eyes snapped open. I was in a car.
A black sedan with tinted windows, smooth leather seats, and a faint smell of gun oil buried beneath something metallic. Two men sat on either side of me, dressed in black suits and gloves, gas masks still pulled up onto their heads.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
“What—” My voice cracked. “Where—”
Neither answered. One of them simply tapped the window twice. The gates of the Alcatraz mansion slid open. No, no, no. I silently prayed my parents and Nicky were okay.
The car drove inside. Not rushed — not like attackers — but like owners. As if the compound belonged to them now.
And maybe it did.
Everywhere I looked, armed men in dark unifor
