Page 33 of Plot Twist in Pelican Point
My blood roars in my ears.
I won’t die with his name stained. I won’t die at all.
I scream—raw and ragged, a sound pulled from the deepest part of me. It echoes through the concrete space like a war cry. I pray someone hears it. That Sebastian is already coming. That Ryan’s already on his heels.
Then the tape is slammed across my mouth—and silence crashes down like a coffin lid.
CHAPTER 11
SEBASTIAN
The scream hits like a grenade—raw, muffled, unmistakably hers.
We’re in the east corridor of the estate, just beneath the old library wing. Marc freezes beside me. Ryan’s already moving, flashlight beam slicing through the low-hanging mist curling around the arched stone foundation. The fog has wormed its way in, clinging to the stone and filling every crack with damp tension and the tang of decay.
We’d already been tracing the false trail—Kate’s phone was still at the cottage, untouched on her nightstand. But her laptop pinged unexpectedly from a hidden network node beneath the east wing. Emma had caught it during a deep scan, cross-referencing the estate’s architectural plans with archival blueprints and network topography.
Emma's voice over the comm had been sharp, urgent. "There shouldn’t be anything down there," she’d said. "But there’s something broadcasting—and it’s using Kate’s credentials."
That’s when everything clicked. The digital ghost trail hadn’t been an error—it was bait. And now, we were hunting the trapper before he snapped the jaws shut for good. There shouldn’t be any substructure here. Hidden rooms. Buriedtunnels. Every time we think we’ve mapped the place, it rewrites itself. And now—Kate’s somewhere in its belly.
“Hidden access point,” Ryan murmurs, pointing his flashlight at a corner panel that doesn’t quite match the rest. “False wall.”
Marc presses a palm to it and the panel shifts with a low groan.
Then... her scream. Kate's scream.
I’m through the wall before anyone else can blink.
The hallway behind it is narrow, ancient brick layered with mold and cobwebs. A bitter chill hits my lungs as we move—tight, silent formation. Ryan at my back. Marc flanking. No words. Just signals. We’ve done this before. In war zones. On rescue missions. But this? This is personal.
I follow the sound—my pulse a battering ram behind my ribs. Her scream echoes again, weaker this time. Then—nothing. Silence so thick it smothers.
We reach the chamber. A crude room built into the foundation. Fluorescent bulb swinging. Duct tape and medical equipment glinting on a makeshift table. A man—Ruiz—standing too close to her.
Kate’s slumped, hands bound behind her back, mouth gagged, eyes wide and frantic.
I see red.
“Now!”
Marc and Ryan break left. I charge center.
Ruiz turns—and I’m already slamming him into the wall, the force cracking plaster and rattling the bulb overhead. He grunts, stunned, and tries to bring the syringe up again, but I wrench his arm behind him, twisting until he howls.
"You don’t get to touch her. Not ever again."
He fights dirty—kicks out, catches my shin—but it only fuels the fire. I drive my elbow into his ribs, feel something crack, then grab him by the collar and slam him into the wall again.
Blood pours from his broken nose. "You think she gives a damn about you? She was always just a means to an end."
His words hit like a mine to the chest—sharp, suffocating, rage-sparking. I see red—pure, unfiltered rage—and I don’t hesitate. I drive my fist into his jaw with a sickening crack that whips his head sideways. Bone-on-bone, the kind of punch that bruises both of us. Before he can recover, I ram another into his gut so deep he folds over, wheezing, spittle flying from his mouth.
He starts to crumple, but I grab him by the collar, yank him upright, and slam him into the wall again with a roar. I want him to feel every inch of what he did—every threat, every bruise, every ounce of fear he put in her eyes.
“You used her. Lied to her. Tried to kill her. You’ll never speak her name again."
He lunges—last effort, all desperation and fury—but I see it coming. I sidestep, grab his wrist mid-swing, and use his own momentum to pivot him around. The crunch of bone-on-bone fills the air as I twist his arm behind his back, then slam him down—hard—onto the unforgiving concrete floor. But I don’t trust stillness. Not from a snake like him.
