The warehouse stank of gasoline and mildew.
Nathalie lay on the cold cement floor, wrists zip-tied again after they moved her to a different location. Her shoulder throbbed where the butt of a rifle had struck her. Blood crusted along her temple.
She was alive—but barely.
Her voice was hoarse, her throat dry. Every breath tasted like rust.
The ringleader leaned down, phone in hand. “Last chance, sweetheart. You call him. You beg."
Nathalie shook her head weakly. “He… he won't come."
“You married rich. He'll care."
“No," she whispered. “He doesn't."
The man pressed the phone to her mouth. “Then make him believe."
---
Benjamin's phone buzzed again.
Unknown.
He almost declined—until Holly said, “What if it's her?"
He sighed and answered. “This is Pendleton."
A voice came—raw, tr
