Page 77 of Heist in Paradise

There was a beat, and I saw a flicker in the corner of my eye, near the dunes. Madoc.

“Wait!” I exploded, and the movement stopped; the men paused, startled at my outburst. “Yes,” I said in a raspy, desperate voice. I hoped, prayed, Madoc was listening. “Yes, please, take me to the boat.”

Let them take me, I pleaded to myself. I knew it was unlikely Madoc would receive my message, but as I was marched down to the water, there was no sign of him.

Not until his voice ghosted in my ear: “Idiot.”

I bit back a miserable smile.

Madoc needed my eyes, and we needed to know how many were in the boat. They’d mentioned others—Other men? Other girls? I knew it was stupid and reckless, and probably going to end with a bullet in my brain. But I was too far in it now. Everything that had happened—the tunnels, the secrets, Jax—it all led to this moment.

I was herded across the narrow dock and onto the yacht. The hands were unyielding, calloused, and punishing as they thrust me downwards, my sneakers fumbling over the stairs. The yacht was absurdly decadent, with fine-fingered chandeliers and warm gold accents, shiny hardwood floors that squeaked beneath me. I was forced down a short hallway, passing three closed doors, to the last door at the end. The men didn’t bother knocking and shoved me inside like a stray animal thrown into a cage.

The room was dimly lit, the bulbs covered in grime, just like the tunnels. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust—for the panic to recede enough for my brain to switch back online. When it did, I stared numbly at the space in front of me, the upturned faces, the haunted eyes, the careful stillness. The room was bare except for the single bed in the middle, which was pointedly untouched. The girls sat on the floor around it, hugging their knees.

Fear, sweat, and unwashed bodies tainted the air. I nearly choked on it. With my back against the door, I used the pressure to ground myself. The girls didn’t react except for their empty, lifeless stares.

“Talk to me.” Madoc’s voice was blunt but breathless, as if he were running. I wondered if he was already on the yacht.

I barely moved my lips. “More girls in the cabin. Four of them.”

“Men?”

“I don’t know. I passed three closed doors, so there could be more inside.”

“Windows?”

I blinked, frowning. “What?”

“Can you get them out?” Madoc bit out in frustration. “Windows? Air vents?”

I looked around, taking in the dry, windowless room no bigger than the bathroom in my dorm. “No.” The word was laced with despair.

“I’m coming.”

Distantly, I heard the sound of more gunshots, but it was like we were underwater. The girls didn’t even flinch. They were so still, so quiet, even their blinking looked coordinated. I tried to summon up some words of comfort, but my throat felt raw. I settled for an overly big smile that hurt my cheeks. When all they did was stare at me, I gave up and listened for Madoc.

A loud thump at my back made us all jolt.

I instantly recoiled as the door opened behind me. Long, sinister shadows stretched across the floor.

“No one move.”

The words—the voice—hit me like a physical blow to my chest. I was tucked behind the door, unseen by the intruder, but it didn’t matter. My body reacted, disconnecting so quickly that I felt like I was floating, up, up, and away.

Shock, my brain supplied helpfully, right before it went silent.

The new intruder stepped into the room, dressed in all black, clutching a gun with thin, quivering fingers. Her hair, once a warm blonde, was lifeless and greasy, balled up in a messy bun with strands stuck to her neck. Her skin was sallow and bruised, her frame so bony that it jutted beneath her too-big clothes.

When she turned, sensing the unfamiliar presence in the room, our eyes locked—grey blue, lifeless, hazy.

Gone.

Her name stuttered out from my lips. “M-Molly?”

OLIVIA

Molly stared at me like I was a ghost.