I’ve been a wreck for the past week, and I’m not hiding it well. Every morning I wake up reaching for Sabrina’s warmth only to find cold sheets and the bitter reminder that she’s gone. The estate feels like a mausoleum without her laughter echoing through the hallways, without the sound of her humming while she organizes baby clothes in the sunroom.
Maksim found me this morning sitting in the nursery we’d started planning together, staring at paint samples scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. He didn’t say anything about the empty whiskey bottle on the windowsill or that I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. He just handed me a cup of coffee and sat down beside me among the chaos of our unfinished dreams.
“The surveillance team reports she’s doing well,” he said quietly. “Jessie came home the same night. They’re taking care of each other.”
I nodded without looking at him, running my fingers over a fabric swatch in the exact shade of yellow Sabrina had chosen for the curtains. “Good. That’s good.”
“You could call her.”
I shake my head. “She asked for space. I’m giving her space.”
“You’re giving her silence. There’s a difference.”
Maybe he’s right, but I won’t force my way back into her life until I can sense she’s ready to talk things out. I won’t be another man who refuses to respect her boundaries, even if honoring them is slowly killing me. So instead, I send gifts. They’re just small things that let her know I’m thinking about her and our daughter without demanding any response or acknowledgment.
Among my favorites was a baby mobile I had commissioned from an artisan in Vermont, each wooden bird hand-carved and painted in the colors we discussed for the nursery. There was a cashmere blanket soft enough for newborn skin, in the cream shade she’d mentioned wanting. Then smaller, more generic gifts, like books about pregnancy and childbirth and tea blends formulated specifically for expectant mothers. Just anything that catches my fancy and might bring her comfort without crossing the line into manipulation.
I know she receives them because the surveillance team confirms the deliveries, but she never calls to thank me or tell me to stop. The silence cuts deeper than any angry words could.
I’m in my study pretending I’m reviewing financial reports with the attention span of a goldfish when Maksim bursts through the door without knocking, holding a burner phone in his hand and wearing an expression I know too well. It’s the look he gets when something has gone catastrophically wrong, and the carefully constructed walls of our world have been breached by forces beyond our control.
He doesn’t speak. He just holds up the phone so I can see the screen.
The video is short, maybe thirty seconds, but it destroys me completely. Sabrina is unconscious and slumped forward in a chair with her hands bound behind her back. There’s blood on her left temple, creating a dark stain against her pale skin that makes my vision blur with rage. She’s wearing jeans and a soft sweater that emphasizes the curve of her belly where my daughter grows.
The warehouse around her is industrial, with concrete walls and exposed pipes running along the ceiling. There are no windows visible in the frame, and no identifying markers that might give away the location. Just my pregnant girlfriend tied to a chair, unconscious and bleeding, while our enemies prepare to use her as leverage against me.
Rage ignites in my chest before fear can register. White-hot fury burns away rational thought and replaces it with the cold, calculating violence that made me dangerous long before I inherited this organization. Someone has taken what belongs to me. Someone has hurt the woman carrying my child.
Someone is going to die for this.
I don’t speak. I simply grab my gun from the desk drawer and stand up with movements that feel unnaturally calm given the storm brewing inside me. “Every available man. Full tactical gear. Now.”
Maksim is already moving toward the door, pulling out his regular phone to start making calls. “How many teams?”
“All of them. I want every soldier we have on the street in the next twenty minutes.”
“What about—”
“I don’t care about territory disputes or ongoing operations. Drop everything. This is the only priority that matters now.”
He nods and steps into the hallway to begin coordinating, his voice carrying the urgency that comes with crisis management. I can hear him barking orders about weapons checks and vehicle assignments, but the words fade into background noise as I focus on the phone still playing that damned video on repeat.
There’s a message attached to the video. Text appeared while I was processing the image of Sabrina’s unconscious form. The words are simple, taunting, and designed to provoke exactly the reaction I’m having: She walked right into our trap, concerned about her friend’s safety. How touching. We’ll be in touch about terms.
Her friend. They used Jessie to lure her out, probably with a fake emergency call that triggered every protective instinct Sabrina possesses. She thought she was rushing to help someone she loves, and instead, she drove straight into an ambush designed specifically to exploit her compassion.
My hands shake slightly as I pocket the phone and move toward the armory, not from fear, but from the effort required to contain the violence building inside me like pressure in a sealed container. I want to tear this city apart brick by brick until I find her. I want to burn down every building where they might be holding her and salt the earth afterward.
I need information first. Location, numbers, and a tactical assessment. Rage without intelligence is just destruction, and destruction won’t bring Sabrina home safely.
Maksim finds me loading magazines in the armory, my movements mechanical and precise despite the chaos in my head. “One of the guards survived the attack.”
I look up from the ammunition for the first time since seeing that video. “Where is he?”
“Dr. Lewis is treating him at the clinic. He has a concussion and broken ribs, but he’s conscious and talking.”
“What did he see?”
“Two vans in a coordinated attack. They took out his vehicle first, then went for Sabrina’s car. It was a professional operation, not random street crime.”
I finish loading the magazine and slam it into my weapon with more force than necessary. “Did he get a look at any of the attackers?”
“Negative. They were wearing masks and tactical gear, but he confirmed how they got her out of the apartment.” Maksim leans against the workbench, his expression grim. “There was a phone call telling her Jessie was in an accident and en route to Jurgen Medical Center on Industrial Boulevard.”
“There is no Jurgen Medical Center on Industrial Boulevard.”
He nods. “No, there isn’t, but she didn’t know that. She just heard her best friend was hurt and needed her.”
They didn’t just take her randomly or wait for an opportunity to present itself. They studied her, learned about her relationships and vulnerabilities, then crafted a lie specifically designed to make her abandon caution and rush into danger. “I want every tool at our disposal. All resources.” I holster my weapon and grab a tactical vest from the equipment rack. “Do we have any eyes on this? Satellite surveillance? Facial recognition? Traffic cameras?”
“Teams are already pulling feeds from every camera in a five-mile radius of the abduction site. If they’re using one of Vadim’s known properties, we’ll have coordinates within the hour.”
Vadim. This has his signature all over it—the careful planning, the psychological manipulation, and the use of an innocent as bait. He’s been planning this since the failed raid on his safehouse when his people didn’t kill me as planned. He’s probably waited for the perfect opportunity to make me desperate and off-balance.
“Pull every file we have on his operations and look for anywhere he might take her for an extended stay.”
Maksim nods. “Already in progress. I’ve got teams checking every location we know about and several we only suspect.”
My phone buzzes with an incoming call from one of our surveillance specialists. I answer without pleasantries. “What do you have?”
“Got a hit from a traffic camera six blocks from the abduction site has a hit. The vehicle’s registered to a shell company we’ve linked to Vadim’s network before.”
“Plates?”
He has an immediate answer. “Stolen, but we tracked the route. They headed south toward the warehouse district.”
“How long ago?”
“Timestamp shows forty-three minutes. They had a significant head start, but we’re narrowing the search area.”
I end the call and turn to Maksim, who’s been monitoring radio chatter from our field teams. “Is there anything from the ground units?”
“Two possible locations tentatively identified. There’s an abandoned textile factory on Pier Street and a storage facility off Highway Nine. Both properties have connections to Vadim’s organization.”
I nod. “Split the teams. Hit both simultaneously.”
He hesitates fractionally. “What if she’s not at either location?”
I barely glance at him as I stuff several magazines in my vest. “We keep looking until we find her and Elizabeth.”
A new call comes in from our tech specialist, and I answer on the first ring. “Talk to me.”
“Coordinates are confirmed. There are heat signatures detected at the storage facility indicating multiple occupants.”
The information sends adrenaline coursing through my system with the intensity of an electric shock. They found her. After less than an hour of searching, we have a location and confirmation that she’s alive. “How many hostiles?”
“Best estimate is four to six individuals. Thermal imaging shows defensive positions around the perimeter.”
“Weak points in their setup?” I ask quickly.
He’s already answering before I finish the last word. “The loading dock on the east side appears to be their blind spot. It has a single guard rotation with minimal coverage.”
I memorize the details while pulling on my tactical gear. Loading dock, east side, minimal coverage. The information burns itself into my consciousness like a brand.
“ETA to target?”
“Eighteen minutes,” he says.
“Make it twelve.”
I shove the phone into my pocket and slide into the passenger seat of the lead convoy vehicle without hesitation. Maksim climbs behind the wheel, his movements as controlled and purposeful as mine despite the urgency of our mission.
This isn’t a rescue operation. It’s a reckoning.
Vadim made a mistake when he took Sabrina. He miscalculated my response, underestimated the lengths I’ll go to protect what’s mine. He thought he could use her as leverage, force me into negotiations or concessions that would give him some advantage in our ongoing war.
What he doesn’t understand is negotiation requires both parties to believe they have something to lose. I don’t negotiate when it comes to Sabrina and our daughter. I don’t make deals or consider compromise. I eliminate threats.
“Rules of engagement?” Maksim asks as we speed through empty streets toward the warehouse district.
“No prisoners. Clean sweep.”
“And Vadim?”
“Is mine.”
He nods before saying, “Does this feel too easy, like the safe house? A single guard rotation…”
I mull it over. “I’ve considered that, but I have to follow every lead.”
He doesn’t argue as he continues driving. The storage facility comes into view as we round the final corner, a sprawling complex of interconnected buildings surrounded by chain-link fence and razor wire.
I check my weapon one final time as our convoy spreads out to surround the facility. The familiar weight of the gun in my hands feels like coming home, like returning to the person I was before I started playing at being civilized and domestic.
If Vadim has hurt her beyond what I saw in that video, if he’s laid another hand on her while she’s been in his custody, I won’t just kill him. I’ll make him beg for death long before I grant it.
First, I’m bringing Sabrina home. Everything else is just cleanup.
