AnabelleLights flared, illuminating the interior of the warehouse, as I got out of the car. A tall, well-built man with sun-darkened skin, eyes that were blacker than coal, and dark hair, pulled back into a greasy looking ponytail and a thick mustache approached me. A ragged-looking scar ran from his jawline, up the side of his face, and disappeared into his hairline.
“You must be Anabelle,” he said, his voice heavily accented. “I've been waiting to meet you.”
I glanced around the warehouse as my heart continued to beat a staccato rhythm in my chest. There were at least two dozen other rough, strong-looking men lounging around – most of them toying with guns and knives.
As if I needed any more reason to be terrified.
“Well, I'm here,” I said. “Now, let Michelle go.”
He smiled, but rat
