Page 113 of King of Praise
My steps echo against concrete as I approach the illuminated area, cataloging details with professional detachment. Support columns provide cover for unseen observers. Catwalks overhead offer elevated firing positions. Office space along one wall likely serves as a command center. Standard configuration but expertly utilized for advantage.
Then I see her, and all professional assessment disintegrates into ashes.
Naomi bound to a chair beneath the spotlight. She sits upright despite obvious discomfort, her expression showing relief and concern. My chest aches.
Across from her, Sandra is a stark contrast—physically diminished by captivity and emotionally exhausted.
The sight of both women—connected to me through such different circumstances yet equally my responsibility in this moment—threatens my judgment.
I force myself to remain still, to resist rushing forward despite every instinct screaming to reach them.
Movement in the shadows beyond the spotlight reveals multiple armed figures maintaining careful coverage. Any sudden action would likely trigger immediate response.
Patience has kept me alive through decades in this dangerous world. Patience might save us all now.
Stay calm. Stay focused. Find the angle.
But God, seeing Naomi bound and vulnerable shatters something inside me.
The woman who survived Lucas’s abuse, now sits captive because of her connection to me.
The guilt mixes with rage into a volatile combination threatening my careful control.
Francesca Barone emergesfrom the shadows beyond the harsh spotlight, her Armani suit and perfectly coiffed hair creating an unsettling contrast to our grim industrial surroundings. The click of her designer heels echoes off the floor as she approaches with grace that poorly masks her predatory intent. I’ve seen that walk before—in panthers stalking prey, in vipers preparing to strike.
Tommy flanks her, one hand resting casually on his holstered weapon. It’s a deliberate reminder of the power dynamics at play.
I maintain focus on their approach. At least eight visible security personnel are stationed throughout the warehouse.I discover more lurking in shadows and elevated positions as additional subtle movements catch my peripheral vision. The numerical disadvantage exceeds even my pessimistic projections.
This isn’t a negotiation. It’s an execution.
The thought sits cold and heavy in my gut. Francesca doesn’t intend for me to leave this warehouse alive. The elaborate staging, the hostages, the pretense of discussion—it’s theater meant to satisfy some personal need for dramatic flair.
My gaze shifts briefly to Naomi. Despite the terror she must be feeling, her breathing remains controlled, her attention sharp as she notes details of our surroundings. Pride rises in the middle of my fear for her safety. Even in this nightmare scenario, she maintains the resilience that helped her survive all these years.
“Micah.” Francesca’s voice drips with artificial warmth as she stops several feet away. “Thank you for joining us this evening. I trust you found the location without difficulty?”
The casual courtesy—as if this were a dinner party rather than a hostage situation—sets my teeth on edge. But I’ve played these games before. “The directions were quite clear.”
“Excellent.” She smooths an invisible wrinkle from her jacket. “I do appreciate punctuality in business meetings. Shall we discuss terms?”
“Let’s discuss the release of the hostages first.” I keep my tone neutral despite the rage simmering beneath. “They’re not part of this.”
“Oh, but they are.” She smiles, revealing too many teeth. “Your charming young lover here provides such useful leverage. And Mrs. Hunt’s presence adds a delightful complexity to the narrative, don’t you think? The grieving mother seeking justice for her murdered son, accidentally entangled in largermachinations.” She laughs softly. “Sometimes reality arranges itself more artfully than fiction.”
“What do you want, Francesca?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Originally? I wanted to recruit you.” She circles slowly, like a shark smelling blood. “Your skills, your connections, your intimate knowledge of Zeke’s operation—all extremely valuable assets. At least Nicolo thinks so. He thought it’d be good to integrate you intomyorganization.”
“And now?”
“Now?” Her circling ends behind Naomi’s chair. One manicured hand trails across Naomi’s shoulder, which makes her flinch. “Now I’m afraid elimination is the only viable option. Your participation in Connor Gallagher’s rather messy demise changed the calculus significantly.”
“Nicolo won’t be happy about that.” I inject just enough tension into my voice to suggest concern. “If he ordered you to convert me, killing me makes an enemy not an ally.”
She lets out an amused laugh. “Oh, darling, I have other offerings that will keep Nicolo quite satisfied. Your death is a minor inconvenience in our larger arrangements.”
Throughout this exchange, I maintain hyperawareness of the distances between players, angles of approach, and potential cover. There’s a support column three meters to my left that could be useful. The metal stairs leading to a catwalk above could provide an advantage. The loading dock door partially visible through gaps between storage containers offers a quick escape. Every detail could matter in what’s coming.
