Grace was in there. He could feel it.
Brian moved to the pedestrian door along the side of the structure. The overhead doors were out of the question unless they had no other choice. The rattle of one opening would announce their presence before they ever got inside.
He tested the knob—it was locked.
Without a word, Brian reached inside his jacket and pulled out his lock-pick set. Around them, the others drew their weapons, the soft clicks of safeties disengaging seeming unnaturally loud in the thick evening air.
Sean’s grip tightened around his Glock. Every instinct screamed at him to smash through the door and tear the place apart until he found Grace. But patience and precision were what would get her out alive.
Brian crouched at the lock and went to work. Sean kept his eyes moving—house, windows, driveway, street—watching for any sign Wallace had detected them.
Less than a minute later, the lock gave with a faint click, and Brian pocketed the picks and drew his weapon. As slowly as possible, he turned the knob and eased the door inward.
Rafe entered first, Sean on his heels, the two of them slicing around the jamb. They moved as one, weapons up, eyes sweeping every corner of the dim garage.
The white sedan was parked in the furthest bay. The sight of it sent a surge of fury through Sean. Closer to the door sat a gray Toyota Camry. Even in the dim light, the damage along the front passenger side stood out. The crumpled metal lined up perfectly with the impact point that had sent Sean sprawling across the asphalt days earlier.
There it was. Proof. The bastard had kept the car.
Brian brushed Sean’s shoulder and pointed toward the wooden staircase climbing to the enclosed loft above. At the top waited a closed door.
Every nerve in Sean’s body locked onto it—Grace was up there.
He moved for the stairs, taking them as fast as he dared without risking noise. The old wood gave the faintest creak beneath his boots, each sound ratcheting his pulse higher. At the landing, he reached for the knob only to find it was also locked.
He glanced back at Brian. Under normal circumstances, they’d pick it. But there was no time for that. If Grace was restrained, injured, terrified—and God help him if Wallace was already hurting her—every second spent waiting was another second too many.
Sean shifted his weight onto his left leg, drew his right foot back, and then drove his boot forward.
Keep him talking, Grace.
The frantic command looped through her mind as she stared at the man standing over her. Every second he spent talking was another second for Sean to realize something was wrong, another second for the police to start looking, and another second closer to rescue.
But how could Sean ever connect this monster to the quiet pharmacist in the white coat? The thought sent fresh fear skittering through her. At work, he’d looked so ordinary—calm, professional, and easily forgettable. The kind of man no one noticed twice while picking up a prescription. White coats were supposed to belong to people who helped others, not men who strapped women to tables.
Her psychology course surfaced through the panic. It had been a required class, one she hadn’t thought about in years until this moment.
Build rapport. Encourage engagement. Humanize yourself. Make him see you as a person instead of an object.
It was the only chance she had.
He stood watching her, silent and unreadable, as if weighing her last question. She forced herself to speak again.
“Why are you doing this? Did I do something to make you angry? Did those other women? I’m sorry if I did. It was never my intention to insult or hurt you. My name is Grace. I’m a physical therapist. Did you know that?”
His head tilted, his eyes narrowing with uncertainty, but he said nothing. Her gaze dropped to his hand, and her stomach lurched. He was turning a knife between his fingers, the silver blade flashing beneath the bare bulb in an almost absent rhythm.
The sight of it made her throat constrict. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to meet his eyes again. “I don’t even know your name.”
That stopped him. His brow furrowed as though the question itself confused him. “Why do you want to know my name?”
Because if she kept him talking, she stayed alive. “I guess it’s a habit. When I tell someone my name, I like to know theirs.”
He studied her for a long moment. “Hmmm. You’re not like the others.”
Knife still spinning, he took a step closer. Her muscles screamed from the strain of the restraints. Her shoulders burned. Her wrists and ankles throbbed where the ropes bit into her skin. Fear coursed through her so fiercely she thought she might be sick, but she held his gaze.
“I’m not?”
