Page 162 of Desperate Actions

I mapped the route.

I know the way.

But this?

This is all wrong.

The streets outside are wrong.

The turns are wrong.

I may not know this city like the back of my hand, but I know how to get from my house to the main avenue—the one where the cutest little cafés and boutiques are clustered together like a postcard-perfect dream of New Jersey life.

This isn’t it.

This isn’t even close.

The car glides through dimly lit streets, each block more unfamiliar than the last, and a slow, suffocating sense of wrongness settles into my bones.

I grip the edge of my seat, fingers curling tight against the leather.

Andrea is still distracted, her attention locked on her phone, but I can’t ignore the alarm bells screaming in my head.

The partition between us and Santos is still up.

I reach for the control panel to lower it.

I press the button.

Nothing.

He turns onto a highway, and I start to panic.

I press the button again.

Still nothing.

My pulse pounds. My breath quickens.

“Hey! This isn’t the way,” I say, my voice coming out tight, edged with unease.

Andrea barely looks up. “Huh?”

“We’re going the wrong way.”

Her brows pinch, finally registering the tension in my voice. She flicks her gaze toward the window, eyes darting over the unfamiliar buildings outside.

He turns off the highway, but the suburban streets I expected aren’t there. We’re in some sort of industrial zone.

Huge chain link fences surround what I think could be factories and some look abandoned.

“I’m calling my brother,” she says.

But then Andrea’s cell phone screen flickers. She frowns.

“Damn. My phone just died. That’s weird—I had half a charge.”

A cold fist clenches around my spine.

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