Page 163 of Desperate Actions

My phone is still in my purse. I snatch it up, pressing the power button.

Dead.

No power. No bars.

The hairs at the nape of my neck prickle.

Something is wrong.

Very. Fucking. Wrong.

Andrea shifts beside me, her expression twisting in confusion, then concern. “Aella?”

She watches as I press my palms to the tinted window, leaning forward to see where the hell we are.

I don’t recognize the buildings.

I don’t recognize the streets.

A pressure builds in my chest, a heavy, suffocating weight that makes it harder to breathe.

“Santos? SANTOS!” I try, raising my voice, knocking twice on the glass.

He still doesn’t respond.

I knock again. Louder.

Still nothing.

A pulse of pure, ice-cold dread slams into me.

I slam my fists against the partition. “What the fuck is going on?”

Andrea sits up straighter, her fingers curling tight around her dead phone.

“Why isn’t he answering?” she murmurs, her voice tight, uncertain.

I don’t have an answer.

The vehicle speeds up.

My heartbeat hammers.

I try the door handle. Locked.

Panic is razor-sharp, slicing into my composure like a blade.

This isn’t some mistake.

This isn’t a wrong turn.

We’re being taken.

I look at Andrea—really look at her—and I see it.

The moment she understands.

The exact second her expression shifts from mild concern to outright fear.

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