CAIN'S POV
The docks smell like salt and diesel and rot.
Cain crouches on the roof of warehouse seven, watching Kozlov's men unload crates from a cargo ship with Russian markings. Through his night vision scope, he counts six guards, two forklifts, and enough firepower to start a small war.
Not a trafficking shipment. Just like he told Elara.
His phone buzzes silently against his ribs. Marcus.
"Talk to me," Cain murmurs into his earpiece.
"Shipment confirmed as weapons. AK-47s, ammunition, some heavier ordnance. No signs of human cargo."
"Expected destinations?"
"Working on it. We've got trackers on three crates so far."
"Good. Keep—" Cain stops mid-sentence, something cold sliding down his spine. Instinct honed over twenty years of staying alive is screaming that something's wrong.
"Boss?"
"Hold position. Something's off." Cain scans the dock area again, looking for the threat his subconscious has already identified. The guards are in position. The shipment is proceeding normally. Nothing out of place.
Except—
"Marcus, how many men did we leave at the penthouse?"
"Four. Two in the lobby, two on your private floor. Why?"
"Call them. Now."
There's a pause, then typing. Then Marcus's voice goes tight. "They're not responding."
Cain is already moving, racing across the rooftop toward the fire escape. "How long?"
"Last check-in was twelve minutes ago."
Twelve minutes. Plenty of time for someone to take out four trained operatives and get to Elara.
"Get everyone to the penthouse. Now." Cain hits the ground running, sprinting toward his car. "And find out who the hell breached our security."
"On it. Boss—if they got past our team—"
"Then they're professionals." Cain's blood runs cold. "And Elara's alone with them."
He floors the accelerator, tearing through the industrial district at speeds that would get anyone else arrested. The police cars that try to follow get lost in his wake—he knows these streets, knows every shortcut and back alley, has spent years learning how to disappear when necessary.
Tonight, he needs to reappear. Fast.
His mind races with calculations. Who knew Elara was at his penthouse? Who had the skills to bypass his security? Who would be stupid or desperate enough to come after him directly?
Kozlov. It has to be Kozlov.
But how? Cain's been so careful, kept Elara's presence completely off the radar. Unless—
Unless someone talked. Someone in his organization, someone close enough to know his movements.
The betrayal burns almost as hot as the fear.
Cain's phone rings. Unknown number. He answers on speaker, still driving like hell itself is chasing him.
"Harlow." The voice is smooth, accented. Familiar. "I believe I have something of yours."
Kozlov.
"If you've touched her—" Cain's voice is deadly quiet.
"Touched her? No, no. Though I must say, she's quite lovely. Your taste has improved." There's a smile in Kozlov's voice, and Cain wants to reach through the phone and rip out his throat. "I simply want to talk. A negotiation between businessmen."
"I'm not negotiating with you."
"Oh, but you will. You see, Miss Monroe is very concerned about her sister. So concerned that she was willing to break into your building, steal classified information, put herself in considerable danger." A pause. "I'm offering her a trade. Maya Monroe's location for the evidence she stole. Simple."
Cain's hands tighten on the steering wheel until his knuckles go white. "You're lying. You don't have Maya."
"Don't I? Let me paint you a picture, Harlow. Three years ago, a pretty little girl disappeared from a community center. Seventeen years old, honor student, bright future ahead of her. We took her to a processing facility outside the city. Kept her there for six months while we broke her, trained her, made her into something profitable." Another pause, letting the words sink in. "She's in Dubai now. Quite popular with our high-end clients. Makes us a considerable amount of money."
Rage floods through Cain, hot and blinding. "I will kill you."
"Perhaps. But first, you'll bring me that evidence. You and Miss Monroe will meet me at the address I'm about to send you. You'll bring the folder, all copies, all documentation. And I'll tell you exactly where to find Maya Monroe." His voice hardens. "You have one hour. If you're late, or if you bring your security team, or if you do anything other than exactly what I say—I put a bullet in Miss Monroe's head and her sister disappears forever. Understand?"
"Crystal clear."
"Good. I'll see you soon, Harlow. And do try not to be a hero. It never ends well."
The line goes dead.
Cain slams his fist into the dashboard, the impact doing nothing to relieve the pressure building in his chest. He's been played. Kozlov knew about Elara the whole time, was probably watching her investigation for months. The phone call from Maya wasn't coincidence—it was bait. Get Elara emotional, get her desperate, make her vulnerable.
And it worked.
His phone buzzes with an address. Warehouse district, east side. Twenty minutes away.
Marcus calls back. "Boss, we're at the penthouse. Four men down, non-lethal hits. Professional work. And Elara's gone."
"I know. Kozlov has her." Cain runs a red light, barely avoiding a collision. "He's demanding a trade—the evidence for Maya's location."
"It's a trap."
"Obviously."
"So we don't go."
"Wrong." Cain's voice is ice. "We go. But not the way he expects."
"Boss—"
"Get the team to this address." Cain sends the location. "Snipers on the rooftops, entry teams on standby. I want eyes on every exit, every window, every possible escape route. And Marcus? No one fires until I give the signal. Kozlov thinks he's holding all the cards. Let's show him he's wrong."
"What about the girl? If he sees our team—"
"He won't. Because you're going to be invisible until I need you." Cain takes a sharp turn, the penthouse disappearing in his rearview mirror. "And when I do need you, I want overwhelming force. Understood?"
"Understood. Boss—we're going to get her back."
"I know." Because the alternative is unthinkable. "Thirty minutes. Be ready."
Cain disconnects and focuses on driving, but his mind is with Elara. Is she hurt? Scared? Fighting back or playing it smart? He should have told her more, prepared her better, kept her closer instead of pushing her away.
He should have kissed her this morning when he had the chance.
The thought comes unbidden, unwelcome. This isn't the time for regrets or what-ifs. This is the time for cold calculation, for strategy, for becoming the weapon everyone thinks he is.
But underneath the ice, underneath the control—Cain is terrified.
Because Elara Monroe somehow became more than an asset. More than a means to an end. She became the first person in twenty years to make him feel human again.
And he's about to walk into a warehouse full of armed men to get her back, consequences be damned.
The drive takes fifteen minutes. Cain uses every second to plan, to calculate, to prepare for the dozen ways this could go wrong. By the time he pulls up to the warehouse, he's run through every scenario, every contingency, every possible outcome.
In most of them, someone dies.
He just has to make sure it's not Elara.
Cain parks in the loading zone, exactly where Kozlov's instructions specified. The warehouse looms above him, all broken windows and rusted metal and shadows that could hide anything. His security team is out there somewhere, invisible, waiting for his signal.
He checks his weapons—two handguns, a knife, and enough ammunition to handle a small army. Not enough if things go really wrong, but it'll have to do.
His phone rings one last time. Kozlov.
"I'm here," Cain says.
"I know. I'm watching you." A pause. "Come inside. Alone. Hands where I can see them. And Harlow? I meant what I said about being a hero. Try anything stupid, and she dies."
The call ends.
Cain takes a breath, centers himself, and steps out of the car. The night air is cold, carrying the smell of the ocean and something else—blood, maybe, or just the promise of violence.
He walks toward the entrance, hands visible, moving like someone who's unarmed and cooperative. Like someone who's beaten.
It's a performance. One he's given before.
The warehouse door hangs open, darkness beyond. Cain steps inside, letting his eyes adjust. Industrial space, empty except for debris and a few old shipping containers. Overhead lights flicker, casting everything in sickly yellow.
"Keep walking," Kozlov's voice echoes from somewhere ahead. "All the way to the back."
Cain walks, cataloging everything he sees. Three men visible, probably more hidden. Exit routes blocked. High ground advantage to Kozlov. This whole thing is designed to put him at maximum disadvantage.
Good thing he planned for that.
He reaches the back of the warehouse, where Kozlov waits in a circle of light. The man looks exactly like his photos—expensive suit, cold eyes, the kind of face that belongs to someone who's never had to get his own hands dirty.
And there, beside him—Elara.
She's bound to a chair, duct tape over her mouth, but her eyes are fierce. Angry, not afraid. When she sees Cain, something flashes across her face—relief, maybe, or warning.
"Harlow." Kozlov smiles. "Right on time. And alone, just as instructed. I'm impressed."
"Where's Maya?" Cain keeps his voice level, non-threatening. Keeps his hands visible and his body language relaxed even though every instinct screams to rush forward, to put himself between Elara and danger.
"All in good time. First, the evidence."
"First, proof of life. I'm not handing over anything until I know Maya Monroe is alive."
Kozlov's smile widens. "Fair enough." He pulls out a phone, taps something, then turns the screen toward Cain.
It's a photo. Recent, based on the timestamp. A young woman in expensive clothes and dead eyes, standing in what looks like a luxury apartment. She has Elara's features—same nose, same mouth—but everything else is different. Hollow. Broken.
Maya Monroe, alive but not living.
"Satisfied?" Kozlov asks.
Cain's jaw tightens. "Where is she?"
"Dubai, like I said. One of our premium facilities. She's quite valuable." He pockets the phone. "Now. The evidence."
Cain reaches slowly into his jacket—slow enough that the three armed men around the perimeter don't shoot him—and pulls out the folder. "Everything's here. Transaction records, shell company documentation, offshore accounts. Enough to put you away for life."
"Which is precisely why I need it destroyed." Kozlov gestures, and one of his men steps forward to take the folder. "And you, Harlow, need to learn a valuable lesson about interfering in my business."
"The lesson being?"
"That everyone you care about dies." Kozlov's expression goes cold. "Your sister learned that twenty years ago. Now Miss Monroe will learn it too."
The man behind Kozlov raises his gun, aiming at Elara's head.
Cain doesn't think. He just moves.
His hand goes to the small of his back, pulling the concealed weapon they somehow missed in their overconfidence. He fires twice—one shot takes down the gunman behind Elara, the second hits the guard to Kozlov's left.
Then all hell breaks loose.
The remaining guards open fire, and Cain dives behind a shipping container as bullets ping off metal. He can hear Kozlov shouting orders, hear footsteps running, hear Elara's muffled sounds as someone grabs her chair.
"Now, Marcus!" Cain roars into his earpiece.
The warehouse explodes with motion.
Windows shatter as Marcus's sniper team takes out the perimeter guards. The main doors burst open, security pouring in with tactical precision. Flashbangs go off, filling the space with light and sound and chaos.
Cain uses the distraction to move, racing toward where he last saw Elara. A guard appears from his left—Cain puts him down with a single shot. Another from the right—a knife to the throat, fast and brutal.
He reaches Elara's position to find her chair empty, tipped over. Someone dragged her away in the confusion.
"Elara!" His voice cuts through the gunfire.
"Here!" Her voice, no longer muffled. She got the tape off somehow.
Cain follows the sound to find her pressed against the far wall, still bound but on her feet. A body lies at her feet—one of Kozlov's men, bleeding from a head wound.
"Did you—" Cain starts.
"Chair leg," she gasps. "Harder than it looks."
Despite everything, he almost smiles. "Come on."
He cuts her bonds with his knife, and the moment her hands are free she grabs his arm. "Kozlov went through the back exit. He has the folder."
"Forget the folder. We need to get you out of here."
"Like hell. He knows where Maya is, Cain. We can't let him—"
Gunfire erupts again, closer this time. Cain shoves Elara behind him, returning fire at two guards who thought they could flank them. They go down, and Cain grabs Elara's hand.
"Stay close," he orders.
They run through the warehouse, Marcus's team providing cover fire as they go. The tactical operation is working perfectly—Kozlov's men are outgunned and outmaneuvered, surrendering or falling one by one.
But Kozlov himself is gone.
Cain and Elara burst through the back exit into an alley. Empty. No sign of Kozlov, no car, nothing.
"Damn it!" Cain slams his fist against the wall.