Page 77 of Final Vendetta

“Damn right you will,” he said firmly, although I could hear the emotion clogging his throat. Then, after a beat, he added, “Brothers for life, Sam.”

“Brothers for life,” I responded, unsure what else to add.

There was so much more I wanted to tell him, but I knew he’d berate me yet again. Instead, I ended our conversation there, hoping it wasn’t the last time I’d ever speak to him.

The remainder of the drive up to Tustin went by quicker than I anticipated, the traffic unusually light. Before I knew it, I was pulling off the freeway and into the nearby carpool lot, a wide expanse of cracked asphalt littered with cigarettes and discarded fast-food wrappers. A single overhead light flickered in the middle, casting long, wavering shadows over the faded lines.

I pulled into a spot near the edge of the lot, cutting the engine and plunging myself into silence. The quiet was deafening, the kind that made every little noise feel amplified.

Minutes ticked by, each one slower than the last. The darkness outside seemed to press in closer, and my mind raced with every possible scenario about what I was about to face.

Then again, I knew precisely what I was about to face. I’d been here before.

When I first escaped, I swore I’d never do anything to put myself in this position again. That I’d rather die than return to that hell.

That was before Imogene.

I’d do anything to save her.

Even if it meant enduring an eternity of torture.

A train horn blew in the distance just as headlights pierced the darkness, their glare reflecting off my mirrors. My pulsekicked up when a black van rolled into the lot, stopping a few spaces away, its windows tinted so dark I couldn’t see inside.

I shot off a quick text to Henry with the plate number, then shoved my phone into the glove box. Steeling myself for the uncertainty of what was to come, I slid out of my car and approached the van, each step measured, deliberate. The driver’s door opened, and a burly man climbed out, his massive frame silhouetted against the headlights. He was built like a tank, his movements precise as he turned to face me.

“Arms out and legs wide,” he barked, his voice low and gravelly.

I complied as he stepped forward, his hands rough and methodical as they swept over my arms, chest, and legs. When he was satisfied I wasn’t armed or wired, he bound my wrists behind my back with a pair of zip ties, then opened the back of the van, the sight of it reminding me of my years spent in captivity.

“Get in.”

With a nod, I walked forward, climbing inside.

He approached, pulling a hood out of the back of his jeans. The sight of it caused bile to rise in my throat. Memories of other hoods, other times, flashed through my mind, but I forced them down, taking a deep breath. Then he yanked the hood over my head, plunging me into an even deeper darkness.

“Remember the deal. No funny business or the girl dies.”

I nodded just as the doors slammed close behind me.

After a few moments, the van started moving, the hum of the engine vibrating through the floorboard. I focused on the turns, counting them in my head — left, right, another left — trying to keep track of where we were going. But the driver wasn’t stupid. After a while, the pattern changed, the car taking random turns, doubling back, speeding up and slowing down until I lost all sense of direction.

The hood was stifling, the fabric pressing against my face. I tried to steady my breathing, forcing myself to focus. This wasn’t the first time I’d been in a situation like this. This was how we were always transported, with hoods on our heads, making it impossible to know where we were.

After several hours of driving, the van slowed, the tires crunching over gravel as it drove over a long unpaved road. Finally, the van stopped. The back door opened, and rough hands grabbed me, hauling me out.

“Move,” the man growled, shoving me forward.

I stumbled but caught myself, the ground uneven beneath my shoes. The air was different here, sharp with the scent of manure and damp earth.

I tried to make out my surroundings, but the hood was too thick. All I could do was listen, every sound amplified in the darkness. A distant creak, like rusted hinges. Footsteps on gravel. Then we were inside a building, the air thicker with the stench of blood and death.

It sent a chill down my spine, the smell bringing forward memories of the years I spent in captivity.

Another rough shove sent me stumbling into what felt like a small, enclosed space. After my zip ties were replaced with shackles, the hood was ripped off. I blinked against the sudden brightness, my eyes struggling to adjust.

When they did, the first thing I saw was the cell. Bare walls without a single piece of furniture.

The second thing I saw was him.

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