Page 64 of Throne of Secrets

No struggle. No signs of Star. Just a dead man and an empty van.

“Max, she’s not here.” Ethan’s voice was razor-edged as he pressed the comm in his ear. Ethan searched the man, and when he found a Glock, he took it. God only knew what he’d run into that night.

“Already on it,” Max responded, keys clacking furiously in the background. “Van’s been here six minutes. Cameras should tell us where Star went. Give me?—”

“Hurry.” Exhaling sharply, Ethan scanned the street. A few cars rolled by, their drivers oblivious to the crime scene. A couple walked past the bus stop on the corner, heads down, unaware.

Max cursed. “Okay, I got eyes. This was a separate guy. Not the same meatheads from the hardware store.”

Ethan’s fists clenched. “Bullshit.”

“Not kidding. The shooter’s not either of the perps from earlier in the alley either. I’m trying to trail them, too. They aren’t going to get away. You fucked up that guy’s jaw. Thor probably tore off the other’s arm. This man’s taller, broader, and he moves like he’s trained. He executes the driver, yanks Star out of the van, and shoves her into another car—dark sedan, plates are fake.”

Ethan frowned. “Fake, not stolen?”

“Yes, the plate number has never been issued. Trying to find it on NYPD’s camera system. But zero luck so far.” Ethan’s gut twisted. The hardware store thugs had to be after Star. That much was clear. So, who the hell was the new player?

“Where did they take her?”

“I don’t have an answer yet,” Max admitted. “But you wanted those guys from the store? I’ve been watching that club you identified earlier. One is at the club. Might be worth a conversation.”

Ethan swiped a hand down his face, forcing down the frustration burning his chest. If he were wrong, it meant Star was in even deeper shit than he thought. But if he were right, he wasn’t wasting time second-guessing.

“I’m on my way.”

“Back entrance is coded, but I know you’ll handle that.”

Ethan didn’t answer. He was already moving.

Ethan crouched in the shadows behind the club, cold rain drizzling over his shoulders as he studied the keypad beside the steel back door. The alley smelled of rotting trash and stale beer, the distant bass of club music vibrating through the bricks.

He pulled the stolen Glock from the back of his waistband and tucked it against his thigh. His fingers moved over the keypad, bypassing the lock with a swift override. Click. The door popped open.

He slipped inside.

The hallway was narrow and dimly lit, the muffled sound of voices and music bleeding through the walls. Ethan moved fast, his boots silent against the tile as he made his way toward the office.

His target was inside, feet propped on a desk, scrolling through his phone like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Ethan kicked the door shut behind him.

Enzo DeLuca, probably in his mid-forties, thick build, wearing a tacky button-down, looked up, startled. “What the?—”

Ethan leveled the gun at him. “Where is she?”

The guy blinked. “Who the hell are you?”

Ethan stepped closer, the barrel an inch from the man’s forehead. “The woman your men grabbed tonight. Where is she?”

“I don’t—what the fuck are you talking about?” He raised his hands, palms out. “We didn’t grab anybody.”

“Wrong answer.”

“I don’t know what you?—”

Ethan slammed the gun against the guy’s cheek, snapping his head to the side. He groaned, spitting blood onto the desk.

Max’s voice buzzed in Ethan’s ear. “Hold up, Ethan. I’m sending you something.”

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