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Frowning, she opened it and saw a brief distressing note followed by an attached image. As the photo loaded, dread settled like a stone in her gut.
It showed a battered and bloodied Callan bound to a chair, head lolled forward, unconscious. The hazy background revealed little, but the message urged her to approach no one, or Callan would die.
Ice flooded Roseline’s veins even as adrenaline spiked. This was her worst fear realized.
The Game Master had her Callan. And he wanted her to know it.
Jaw clenched, she hesitated to forward the alarming text to Beckner, brain going at full speed.
Roseline stared at the photo on her phone screen, hands trembling uncontrollably. Guilt gnawed ceaselessly inside, making her stomach churn. She had brought this calamity upon Callan.
In her arrogance, she had thought her skills could outmaneuver the Game Master. But in provoking him by hacking his servers, she had made Callan collateral damage.
Now, this psychopath had abducted and hurt the man she loved, and it was all her fault. She should have been more cautious instead of letting vigilante vengeance cloud her judgment.
“Oh God… Callan, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, throat tightening.
She should have known the sadistic killer would retaliate, but she never imagined he would come after Callan. Roseline had hoped her skills would keep him safe, yet her actions had only put his life in greater jeopardy.
Roseline wished she could call Beckner for backup, but she couldn’t risk Callan more than she already had. For now, she was alone in this.
She typed out a message to the unknown number that had texted her Callan’s photograph. “You’ve made your point. I’ll undo everything. Just let Callan go, please,” she begged. “He’s innocent in all this.”
The reply came swiftly: “Poor Roseline. It’s far too late for pleas now. You wanted to play deadly games with me. Time to see how far you’ll really go. Time to play.”
Revulsion and rage flooded through Roseline, even as icy fear gripped her heart. She had no choice now but to confront this demon on his own territory.
Alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Callan blinked his eyes open, his head throbbing.
For a moment, he was disoriented, unsure of where he was or how he’d gotten there. The last thing he remembered was the scuffle outside the safe house. They’d been escorting Antonio Ricci, the final name on the list of potential targets. Callan had urged the mobster to let them help, to enter protective custody before the Game Master could get to him. Antonio had resisted at first, skeptical of trusting the police, but Callan’s sincerity won him over.
Then what? What had happened…Oh.
They were just steps from the safe house when the black SUV came screeching around the corner. Callan had reacted on instinct, shoving Antonio toward the doorway right as the masked assailants leaped out brandishing baseball bats. He’d managed to get two shots off before one of the bats collided with him, sending his gun skittering across the pavement.
Now, as Callan blinked again, the sterile room came into focus. Bare concrete walls, a metal door, and a single dim ceiling light. A small rectangular window inset with wire mesh and containers at a distance. He was on the Game Master’s morbid stage. His hands were bound behind his back, the rope cinched so tight it was already chafing his wrists. More rope confined his ankles to the metal chair he was sitting on. He tested the bindings, but they held fast. Escape would not come easily.
Frustration and rage boiled inside of him. He cursed himself for letting his guard down outside the safe house. The Game Master had outmaneuvered him completely. And now Antonio Ricci was paying the price, destined to become another unwilling participant in the Game Master’s online spectacle of violence. Callan yanked fiercely at the ropes again, ignoring the pain. He had to find a way out of this nightmare. The image of Antonio’s panicked face flashed in his mind, steeling his determination.
The sound of approaching footsteps stilled Callan’s efforts. He lifted his head toward the door, nerves tingling with anticipation. The heavy metal door swung inward with an ominous creak. Framed in the doorway stood a tall, broad-shouldered figure wearing an elaborate Venetian masquerade mask and a tailored black suit. The Game Master had arrived.
Callan’s jaw clenched tight as the Game Master entered the cell, each footstep echoing off the cold floor. He circled Callan slowly, surveying him like a big cat sizing up cornered prey. Callan resisted the urge to spit on his polished wingtip shoes that came into view. That would likely only earn him a backhand or worse.
“Well, well, Detective Hemlock,” the Game Master said, his voice artificially modulated through the mask. “What an honor to make your acquaintance.”
Callan bit back a scathing retort, glaring at the masked man silently instead. He wouldn’t give this psychopath the satisfaction of a response.
The Game Master seemed amused at Callan’s defiance. “Strong, stoic silence, I see. No matter. We have plenty of time for conversation.” He paused, tilting his head. “Or for less civilized interactions, if required.”
Callan focused on keeping his breathing steady despite the spike of anxiety those words triggered. The threat was clear. He was at this madman’s mercy here. But he wouldn’t show fear.
“I must congratulate your colleagues at the NOPD,” the Game Master continued. His tone dripped with arrogance. “The increased police presence has been such an entertaining challenge for me. But as you can see…” He gestured around the cell. “...I continue to be steps ahead.”
Callan ground his teeth, fury simmering in his gut. This bastard took human lives and unspeakable suffering so lightly, like it was all a game.
