Page 8 of Enigma: The Final Chapter
But can I do this? Can I trust putting Isabelle’s safety into the hands of another man?
Can I relinquish my vital necessity to protect her to another?
Although my ego takes a hit admitting it, yes, I can. I’ll use every tactic I can to ensure Isabelle is safe, even using the antagonist standing across from me.
“He has Isabelle at a warehouse in Harbortown. You can follow me there.”
I may accept Alex’s assistance, but that doesn’t mean I'm a foolish man. I can’t guarantee he wouldn’t arrest me the instant I advised him of Isabelle’s location. By requiring him to follow me, it means I'll still be the first man on site.
I shift my focus to Hunter. “Get Tallis out and call Ryan. Tell him we're going back to where it all began.”
Alex follows me out of his office, barking orders at a handful of agents milling around the confined space. I don’t hear any of the words he's saying. My sole focus is on reaching Isabelle before Col hurts her.
Just as my foot enters my Bugatti, I glance at Alex. “Get in. This will be quicker than the piece of shit you’ve been tailing me in the past few weeks.”
He stiffens, surprised I knew he was tailing me. I’ve known for weeks, but I figured if he wanted to waste his personal time surveilling me, he could because the more attention he focuses on me, the less heat on Hugo and my team.
After dipping his chin in farewell to Regan, Alex slides into the passenger seat of my car. Nothing but the smell of burning rubber lingers in the air from my heavy compression on the accelerator.
It’s time to lay my cards on the table.
Line up all my ducks in a row.
It’s time to play my most lethal hand.
Chapter 4
Isabelle
This time, when I blink my eyes, the sun is no longer shining through any cracks in the black plastic. No skyline is visible. My head is thumping ten times worse, and the urge to vomit is so overwhelming, I dry-heave through the thick material stuffed in my mouth. I attempt to move my arms, wanting to rub away my blurred vision, but my efforts are futile since my wrists are tied behind my back.
Dropping my blurred vision to the polished concrete ground, I discover my ankles are bound with the rope I tripped over earlier in the office. After blinking numerous times, my dry eyes scan the area. I’m no longer in an office but in an industrial-looking building, similar to the warehouse Isaac owns in Hopeton. There’s a black boxing ring with stadium chairs surrounding three sides of it. It appears to be a professional fighting club, except there's no sponsorship promotional material or signage like you’d usually see in a professional fight circuit.
Dread washes over me.This must be Col Petretti’s underground fighting circle.
I soundlessly squeal when something cool brushes my shoulder. My pupils widen when my eyes lock in on a gentleman standing next to me. Even though my vision remains clouded, there's no mistaking he’s the man I saw at the gala two weeks ago. The same man I swore to Isaac wouldn’t harm me as I trusted my intuition.
How could I have been so stupid?
He crouches down in front of me. “If you squeal, the gag will have to go back in.” His tone is firm but not threatening. “Got it?”
Unable to speak through a severe case of cotton-mouth, I nod. My tongue darts out to lick my parched lips the instant the gag is removed. While I bring some fluid to my throat with quick swallows, he is unscrewing the cap of a water bottle. Once the lid has been removed, he lifts it to my mouth and tilts it back. An appreciative gasp expels from my lips. The refreshing coolness of the water trickling down my scorching dry throat is a godsend.
“Slow down, your gulps or your swirling stomach won’t hold in the water. You don’t want to vomit while having a gag in your mouth, or you’ll run the risk of choking.” Although his voice is super throaty, his words are more soothing than intimidating.
Once half of the bottle has mollified the dryness impinging my throat, I pull away.
“Enough?”
When I nod, he screws the lid back on, then stores the bottle next to my shoeless feet.
I flinch when his hand returns to my face. “I won’t hurt you.”
He wipes away the water that spilled from my mouth during my greedy gulps. When he’s finished, he dabs his thumb under my eyes that are likely stained with black mascara streaks.
“Please let me go,” I beg, realizing his actions are exposing a side most men have but refuse to acknowledge—their nurturing instincts.
After removing the marks under my eyes, his dark, dangerous gaze locks with mine. “I can’t let you go. Without you, I won’t get any of the answers I’ve been searching for.”
