SIENNA'S POV
The patrol car exploded.
One second I was handcuffed in the back seat, watching the city blur past through bulletproof glass. The next, the world turned into fire and screaming metal.
The blast threw me sideways. My head cracked against the window. Glass shattered everywhere. The car flipped—once, twice—before slamming upside down on the concrete.
Pain exploded through my body. Blood ran into my eyes. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only hang suspended by my seatbelt while smoke filled my lungs.
"Officer down! Officer down!" someone screamed outside.
Hands grabbed me through the broken window, dragging me from the wreckage. Strong hands. Familiar hands.
Damien.
"Can you walk?" he demanded, already hauling me to my feet.
"What—how—"
"Later. Run now."
We ran.
Behind us, more explosions rocked the street. Cars burst into flames. Officers scattered, taking cover, shouting orders into radios. Complete chaos.
Damien pulled me into an alley, then through a door into an abandoned building. We climbed four flights of stairs before he finally stopped in an empty office, both of us gasping for air.
"Did you just blow up a police car?" I panted. "With me inside it?"
"Ghost did. Remotely. Controlled explosion to disable the vehicle without killing anyone." He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked my handcuffs. "You're welcome, by the way."
"I could have died!"
"But you didn't." He grabbed my face, fingers gentle despite his urgent tone. "Sienna, listen to me. We have less than three hours to find Maya before Marcus's poison kills her. Every cop in the city is hunting us. And according to that text message, nothing we think we know is actually true."
I pulled out my phone with shaking hands and read the message again: Marcus isn't victim eleven's brother. He IS victim eleven. And the person you're trying to save isn't Maya at all.
"This doesn't make sense," I said. "Marcus is a man. Victim eleven was a girl. Unless—"
"Unless victim eleven transitioned," Damien finished. "Changed identity completely to escape the trauma. Became someone new."
The pieces clicked into horrible place. Marcus's obsession with the case. His knowledge of details he shouldn't know. The way he'd manipulated my entire investigation while pretending to support me.
"He was one of the thirteen children," I whispered. "He survived the trafficking ring, became a cop, and spent twenty years planning revenge against everyone responsible."
"Including your father." Damien's voice was grim. "Including Maya, who he believes was complicit somehow. And including you—the daughter of the judge who buried the case."
My phone buzzed again. Another message from the unknown number: If you want to save your friend, go to Mercy Hospital. Room 607. Alone. You have two hours and forty minutes.
"It's a trap," Damien said immediately.
"I know." I headed for the door anyway. "But if there's even a chance Maya is there—"
"Then we go together." He caught my arm. "No more splitting up. No more trusting anonymous messages. We're a team, Detective."
The words shouldn't have made my heart race, but they did.
We stole a car from the building's parking garage—one of Damien's many questionable skills—and drove toward Mercy Hospital. My mind spun with impossible questions.
If Marcus was victim eleven, who was he working with? Who created those deepfake videos? Who was pulling strings from the shadows?
And most terrifying of all: if the person I'd been trying to save wasn't Maya, then who was it?
Mercy Hospital loomed ahead, all white walls and bright lights. We parked three blocks away and approached on foot, watching for police or Marcus's people.
"Room 607," I muttered, checking the directory. "Sixth floor. Intensive care unit."
"Cameras everywhere," Damien observed, pointing to security feeds. "We can't just walk in."
"Watch me."
I walked straight through the main entrance like I belonged there. Damien followed, both of us moving with the confidence of people who had every right to be in a hospital at midnight.
The sixth floor was quiet. A nurse station sat empty, the night shift probably dealing with an emergency elsewhere. We found room 607 at the end of the hallway.
I pushed open the door, hand on my weapon.
Maya lay in the hospital bed, hooked to machines that beeped steadily. Her shoulder was bandaged from the gunshot. Her face was pale but peaceful.
She looked like she was sleeping.
"Maya?" I moved to her side, relief flooding through me. "Maya, wake up. We need to go. You're in danger."
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and confused. "Si? What are you doing here?"
"Saving you." I started disconnecting the IV lines. "Marcus poisoned you. We have to get you somewhere safe before—"
"Before what?" Maya's voice was strange. Flat. Not quite right.
I looked at her more carefully. Something was wrong. Her eyes—they were the right color but the wrong shape. Her face—similar but subtly different.
"You're not Maya," I breathed.
"No," the woman in the bed agreed, sitting up with fluid grace despite her injuries. "I'm not."
She pulled off her hospital gown to reveal tactical gear underneath. Then she reached up and peeled away a section of her face—advanced prosthetics that had made her look like my best friend.
Beneath the disguise was a woman I'd never seen before. Mid-thirties, with sharp features and cold, calculating eyes.
"Who are you?" I demanded, gun raised.
"Someone who's been playing you for three weeks, Detective Cross." She smiled, and it was cruel. "Someone who needed you distracted while the real operation moved forward. Did you really think those murders were random? That Celeste's activist tour was about feminism? That any of this was about justice?"
Damien moved beside me, his own weapon drawn. "Where's the real Maya?"
"Safe. For now." The woman checked her watch. "But not for long. See, Maya Chen is the key to everything—the one witness who knows the whole truth about what happened twenty years ago. The one person who can identify all thirteen victims and all the perpetrators. Which is why she needs to die."
"Why go through this elaborate setup?" I demanded. "Why frame me? Why the deepfake videos?"
"Because you were getting too close." She stood slowly, hands raised to show she wasn't armed. "Your investigation was about to expose things that needed to stay buried. So we gave you a different story to chase. Made you think Marcus was the killer. Made you think Celeste was victim thirteen. Made you trust Damien Kade—the man who's been orchestrating everything from the beginning."
I glanced at Damien. His face had gone completely blank.
"That's a lie," I said, but doubt crept into my voice.
"Is it?" The woman moved toward the window. "Ask him about his parents, Detective. Ask him if they were really murdered investigating the trafficking ring. Or if that's just another story he told to manipulate you."
"Don't listen to her," Damien said quietly. "She's trying to divide us."
"Then prove it." I turned to face him, gun still raised. "Tell me the truth. All of it. Right now."
For a long moment, Damien just looked at me with those silver eyes that had made me trust him, believe in him, care about him despite every warning.
Finally, he lowered his weapon. "My parents were investigative journalists. That part is true. But they weren't murdered for investigating the trafficking ring."
My heart sank. "Damien—"
"They were murdered because they found something worse." His voice was hollow. "Evidence that the trafficking ring was just one operation in a network spanning decades. Proof that some of the thirteen victims weren't actually victims at all—they were plants, placed there to control the narrative and protect the real perpetrators."
The room went silent except for the beeping machines.
"What are you saying?" I whispered.
"I'm saying victim thirteen—Elena Russo—wasn't a trafficked child." Damien looked at me with so much pain I could barely stand it. "She was the daughter of one of the traffickers. Placed in the system at age nine to learn the names of other victims, to gather intelligence, to make sure the operation stayed protected."
"That's impossible. Celeste was abused. Maya confirmed it."
"Maya confirmed that Elena Russo existed and went through the system," the woman by the window corrected. "But she never said Elena was actually trafficked. Never said she was actually hurt. Just that she was there."
My mind raced through everything I knew about Celeste Moreau. Her sealed records. Her carefully constructed background. The way she'd used her activist platform to control the narrative about the thirteen victims.
"Celeste has been protecting the traffickers," I realized. "Her whole tour, her speeches, her activism—it was all designed to control how people thought about the case. To make sure certain questions were never asked."
"Now you're getting it." The woman smiled. "And Maya Chen was the only witness who could expose the truth. Which is why we needed her eliminated. Why we needed you and Damien distracted. Why we needed Marcus to take the fall as the killer while the real operation continued."
"Where is Maya?" I demanded again. "Where is she really?"
"Ask him." The woman pointed at Damien. "Ask the man who's been three steps ahead of everyone. The man who built an empire on revenge. The man whose company has been investigating the trafficking ring for twenty-three years." Her smile turned vicious. "Ask him where he's been keeping Maya Chen for the past six hours."
I turned slowly to look at Damien. At the man I'd trusted. The man I'd run from police with. The man I'd believed was helping me.
"Damien?" My voice cracked. "Tell me she's lying."
"I can't." He said it so quietly I barely heard him. "Because Maya is at my headquarters. Has been since the stadium shooting. Ghost has been keeping her sedated for her own protection."
The betrayal hit like a physical blow. "You kidnapped my best friend?"
"I saved her life!" His control finally cracked, emotion flooding through. "Sienna, listen to me. Maya was poisoned at the stadium—not by Marcus, but by someone else. Someone who wanted her dead before she could tell you what she knows. I took her to my facility, to my medical team, because it was the only way to keep her alive!"
"While lying to me about it!" I moved away from him, gun raised. "While letting me think she was dying. While manipulating me into trusting you!"
"I was trying to protect you!"
"By treating me like everyone else does—like I can't handle the truth!" Tears burned my eyes. "You're just like Hale. Just like Marcus. Just like my father. Using me, manipulating me, deciding what I'm allowed to know!"
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?" I laughed bitterly. "Nothing about this is fair! My father was corrupt, my mentor betrayed me, my partner is a serial killer, and the man I thought I could trust has been lying to me from the beginning!"
The woman by the window clapped slowly. "Excellent. Now that we've established no one can be trusted, let me tell you what's really happening."
She pulled out her phone and showed me a live video feed.
Maya—the real Maya—lay strapped to a table in a concrete room. Tubes ran from her arms to machines I didn't recognize. Above her head, a timer counted down: 2:14:37... 2:14:36... 2:14:35...
"What is that?" I demanded.
"A choice." The woman's smile was cruel. "In two hours and fourteen minutes, the sedatives keeping Maya alive will run out. When that happens, the poison already in her system—the real poison, not the one Marcus supposedly injected—will finish shutting down her organs. She'll be dead in minutes."
"How do we stop it?"
"That's the beautiful part. You don't." She gestured to the video. "See, Maya's survival depends on a very specific sequence of events. Events that can only happen if you make the right choices in the right order. One wrong move, and she dies. One lie, and she dies. One moment of trusting the wrong person—" She looked meaningfully at Damien. "—and she dies."
"What do you want?" I asked through gritted teeth.
"For you to go to the warehouse. The real warehouse—not the fake one Marcus led you to. The place where this all began twenty years ago." She pulled out a key card and placed it on the hospital bed. "Go there. Find the truth about the thirteen victims. Discover what Maya knows that's worth killing for. And maybe—just maybe—you'll find the antidote in time."
"And if I don't?"
"Then your best friend dies. Damien's twenty-three-year quest for revenge dies. And the truth about the trafficking ring stays buried forever." She moved toward the door. "Oh, and Detective? The warehouse is rigged with explosives. You have exactly two hours before it detonates, destroying all evidence. So I'd hurry if I were you."
She left, disappearing into the hospital corridor before either of us could stop her.
I stood there, shaking with rage and fear and betrayal, staring at the video of Maya slowly dying.
Damien moved closer. "Sienna—"
"Don't." I held up a hand. "Don't tell me you were protecting me. Don't tell me you had good reasons. Just tell me the truth: can your medical team save Maya without the antidote?"
He hesitated too long.
"Can they?" I demanded.
"No," he admitted. "The poison is too sophisticated. We need the antidote or she dies."
I grabbed the key card and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" Damien asked.
"To save my best friend." I didn't look back. "And you're going to tell me everything. Every lie. Every manipulation. Every secret you've been keeping. Because if Maya dies because I trusted you—"
"She won't," he interrupted. "I promise you, Sienna. She won't."
"Your promises don't mean anything anymore."
We left the hospital and drove toward the warehouse district in tense silence. My phone buzzed constantly with updates—news about the escaped fugitive, police sightings, Captain Torres promising I'd be caught.
But I ignored it all. My mind was focused on one thing: Maya, strapped to that table, timer counting down, dying because I'd been too blind to see the truth.
"The woman at the hospital," Damien said finally. "I know who she is."
"Who?"
"Victim number twelve. Rebecca Stone. She's been working with Celeste for years, helping orchestrate everything." He pulled up a photo on his phone. "She's the one who created the deepfake videos. Who arranged the stadium shooting. Who's been pulling strings from the shadows."
"Why tell me now?"
"Because you deserve to know." He looked at me with raw honesty. "I've made a lot of mistakes, Sienna. Kept too many secrets. Tried to control everything because I was afraid if I let anyone close, they'd end up like my parents—dead because they knew too much. But you were right. I can't protect you by lying to you. I can only lose you."
Something in my chest cracked. "I need to know I can trust you."
"You can." He said it with such certainty I almost believed him. "From this moment on, no more secrets. No more lies. Just the truth, no matter how ugly it is."
The warehouse appeared ahead—a massive concrete structure surrounded by rusted fencing and broken windows. The place where thirteen children had been held twenty years ago. Where their lives had been destroyed while corrupt officials looked the other way.
Where this had all begun.
I checked my phone: 1:47:23 remaining.
"We have less than two hours," I said. "To find the antidote, discover the truth, and get out before the building explodes."
"Then let's not waste time."
We approached the warehouse cautiously. The key card opened a side entrance, revealing a dark corridor lined with rooms. Each door had a number: 1, 2, 3... all the way to 13.
"This is where they kept them," I whispered. "The thirteen victims. One room for each child."
Damien's hand found mine, squeezing gently. "We'll find the answers, Sienna. And we'll save Maya. I promise."
We moved deeper into the warehouse, our flashlights cutting through darkness. Each room we passed made me sicker—mattresses on concrete floors, chains bolted to walls, evidence of horror that had happened while my father signed papers to bury the case.
Finally, we reached room thirteen.
I used the key card. The door clicked open.
Inside, the room was different from the others. Instead of a prison cell, it was set up like an office—computers, filing cabinets, surveillance equipment.
"What is this?" I asked.
"The control center." Damien moved to the computers, powering them on. "This is where they coordinated everything. Kept records. Monitored the victims."
Files appeared on the screen—photos of thirteen children with detailed profiles. I recognized Maya's young face. Marcus before his transition. And Elena Russo, who would become Celeste Moreau.
But as I read through the files, something didn't make sense.
"Damien," I said slowly. "These files... they don't match the official records."
"What do you mean?"
"According to police reports, the thirteen victims were rescued twenty years ago after the trafficking ring was exposed. But these files—" I clicked through pages. "These files show the operation continued for three more years. That the 'rescue' was staged. That the real traffickers were never caught."
Damien's face went pale. "That's impossible."
"Unless the entire case was a cover-up." I pulled up more files, my hands shaking. "Unless someone high up decided it was better to fake a rescue, seal the records, and let the operation continue underground."
"Who would have that kind of power?"
I opened the last file on the computer. And my entire world shattered.
A photo appeared—a man in a judge's robe, shaking hands with known traffickers. Signing documents. Taking money in briefcases.
My father.
Not just taking bribes to seal records. Actually running the operation. Coordinating shipments. Deciding which children to take and which to leave alone.
"No," I whispered. "This can't be real."
But there were dozens of photos. Videos. Recorded conversations. Years of evidence proving Judge Raymond Cross wasn't just corrupt—he was the architect of everything.
"Sienna—" Damien's voice was gentle. "I'm sorry."
"Did you know?" I turned on him. "When you said my father was corrupt, did you know he was THIS corrupt?"
He looked away, which was answer enough.
"You knew," I breathed. "You knew my father wasn't just taking bribes. You knew he was one of the monsters. And you let me keep investigating without telling me."
"I was trying to spare you—"
"Spare me? SPARE ME?" I shoved him hard. "My entire life has been a lie! My father wasn't just a crooked judge—he was a trafficker! He hurt those children directly! And you let me think he was just a man who'd made bad choices!"
"Would knowing have changed anything?" Damien demanded. "Would it have made his death hurt less? Made your investigation easier? Or would it have destroyed you faster?"
He was right, and I hated him for it.
My phone buzzed: 1:02:17 remaining.
I wiped tears from my face and focused. "We need the antidote. Where would they keep it?"
"If this was the control center, there might be a medical supply room." Damien searched the office, pulling open drawers and cabinets.
I kept searching the computer files, looking for anything about poison or antidotes or medical protocols.
Then I found it—a file labeled CONTINGENCY PROTOCOL.
I opened it and felt my blood turn to ice.
"Damien," I called. "You need to see this."
He came to read over my shoulder. "What am I looking at?"
"Instructions for what to do if any of the thirteen victims tries to expose the trafficking ring." I scrolled through the document. "Stage their death. Create a plausible cover story. Use poison that mimics natural causes. And then—" I stopped at the final paragraph.
"What?" Damien demanded. "What does it say?"
"There is no antidote." The words barely made it out. "The poison used isn't real poison—it's a sedative designed to fake death. The 'antidote' is just saline solution to reverse the sedation. But Maya..." I looked at him with dawning horror. "Maya was given real poison at the stadium. Military-grade neurotoxin. The kind that has no cure."
"No." Damien grabbed the computer, scanning the file desperately. "There has to be something. Some treatment—"
"There isn't." My voice was hollow. "Whoever poisoned Maya did it knowing she couldn't be saved. This whole thing—the warehouse, the timer, the key card—it was all a distraction. A way to keep us busy while Maya dies and all the evidence is destroyed."
My phone timer showed: 0:47:08.
Less than forty-seven minutes until Maya was gone forever.
And I was standing in a warehouse about to explode, staring at proof my father was a monster, next to a man who'd lied to me about everything.
"I need to see her," I said. "I need to be with Maya when—" I couldn't finish.
"Sienna—"
"Take me to your headquarters. Now. I'm not letting my best friend die alone."
Damien grabbed my hand. "Wait. If Maya knows the truth about the thirteen victims, if she knows who really ran the trafficking ring, then maybe she knows something about the poison too. Something that could save her."
"She's unconscious!"
"Then we wake her up." He pulled me toward the exit. "We have forty-six minutes. Ghost's medical team can stimulate her enough for her to talk. To tell us what she knows. To maybe—just maybe—point us toward something we've missed."
It was desperate. Impossible. But it was all we had.
We ran from the warehouse just as the first explosives began to detonate behind us. The building collapsed in a cloud of fire and dust, destroying twenty years of evidence.
But I didn't look back. I only focused on one thing:
Getting to Maya before time ran out.
The drive to Luxe headquarters took twelve minutes we didn't have. By the time we burst into Ghost's medical facility, the timer showed: 0:31:47.
Maya lay on a bed surrounded by machines, her face peaceful despite the poison shutting down her organs. Ghost stood over her, monitoring readouts that showed her declining vital signs.
"Can you wake her?" I demanded.
"For maybe five minutes," Ghost warned. "But it will speed up the poison. She'll die faster."
"Do it." I grabbed Maya's hand. "She needs to tell us what she knows. It's the only chance."
Ghost administered stimulants. For an agonizing minute, nothing happened.
Then Maya's eyes fluttered open.
"Si?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "What's happening?"
"You were poisoned." I squeezed her hand gently. "Maya, I need you to tell me everything you know about the thirteen victims. About Celeste. About what really happened twenty years ago."
"Why?"
"Because I think the answer might save your life."
Maya looked at me with eyes full of love and regret and secrets she'd carried too long.
"The thirteen victims," she whispered. "They weren't all victims, Si. Some of us—" She coughed, blood flecking her lips. "Some of us made deals. Gave information. Hurt other kids to save ourselves."
"Elena Russo gave the traffickers your name," I said. "I know."
"No." Maya's grip tightened. "Elena didn't give them my name. I gave them hers."
The world stopped.
"What?" I breathed.
"I was victim seven. But I wasn't just taken—I was recruited." Tears streamed down Maya's face. "They offered me a deal. Help them identify other vulnerable foster kids, and they'd let me go. Give me money. Protection. A new life." Her voice broke. "I was nine years old and terrified, and I said yes. I gave them Elena's name. I'm the reason she spent five years in that system. I'm the monster, Sienna. Not her."