Page 63 of Entwined With You

“Found him,” Quince said. “I’m about to settle in for a nice long chat with him.”

“Just don’t make it too long. We don’t have much time. She doesn’t have much time.”

“If he knows where she is, I’ll get it out of him,” Quincy promised. “And I’ll get it fast.”

“Call me when you have something.”

“You know I will,” Quincy said, then ended the call.

Brax and Mason were at Joe’s, the bar where Sabrina had been going to meet Morris Grey. Apparently she’d found Grey’s body—and then she’d been taken. Now the only sign of her was her phone that had been left in the alley behind the bar.

Quincy Radcliffe was working with them. Former MI-6, Quincy had been with Stark Security almost from the beginning. And while he had mad skills in everything from weapons to hand-to-hand, his true genius was extracting information. Oh, yes. They’d find her.

But first they had to get the information out of Jorge Ramos, the little Group Ultra worm who had not only doctored the photos that supposedly showed Brax rigging Sabrina’s van, but had suggested to Lambert that he recruit Sabrina all those years ago.

As soon as Brax learned that Sabrina had been taken, the entirety of the SSA had burst into action. Not fast enough, though. Lambert was gone, presumably out of the country. A few low-level operatives remained on site, and were being processed by the SOC. Seagrave himself was interviewing each one to learn if they had any information at all about Sabrina’s whereabouts. So far, his status updates over the last ninety minutes had all been negative.

Brax had originally urged Seagrave to cage the fuckers, but Quincy had suggested otherwise. “They’re ants, and ants always head to the Queen. Put tails on them. Tap their phones. Use whatever tricks we have. It might take years, but if we watch the workers, eventually we’ll find Lambert. Not to mention the heads of the other cells.”

It was good advice, and Seagrave took it, releasing each of the office drones after their exit interview, and assuring that a SOC agent was monitoring.

Brax’s phone rang, and he answered without looking at the display. “Tell me you got it out of him.”

“Fuck you,” a gravely voice said. A familiar voice. Jorge.

One of the ants had actually given valuable information.

“Where is she?”

“Go to hell, fucker.”

“He’s on something,” Quincy said. “The little bastard’s trying to cooperate, believe it or not, but his brain’s too fried from whatever he shot up with.”

“Bitch is gonna burn. Gonna burn in hell, hell, the devil’s own hell.”

The words were soft in the background, but Brax could make them out, and they made his stomach twist in fear.

He had no idea where they’d taken Sabrina. But he knew they had to find out fast.

Because what Jorge Ramos was telling them was that wherever she was hidden, that place was about to go up in flames.

Chapter Eighteen

I am not going to die today. And I am definitely not going to burn to death. I already escaped that fate once when I bolted from a rigged van. I’m not going to come full circle to die inside a warehouse when it goes up in flames.

That’s my plan, at least. My problem is that Jorge had something else in mind. And that’s why I’m currently tied to a post in a warehouse in god knows where, and the stacks of cardboard and newspapers in all the corners are already starting to catch from the bits of crumpled newspaper and strips of cloth he set around the perimeter before telling that he needed to get home, but that he’d see me tomorrow.

Or, at least, he’d see my ashes.

How the hell could I have once believed he was a friend?

I cough from the increasing smoke, then force myself to keep scraping at my bonds. My upper arms ache, but my wrists are lashed together behind my back and the post I’m leaning against. I’m trying to rub the tape that’s binding my wrist along the post to cut it, but so far, I’m having no luck. None that I can tell anyway. It’s not as if I can see if I’m making progress.

Think, dammit, think.

But I am thinking. And there’s nothing else I can do. I’m literally tied to a post surrounded by a slow but growing fire.

Jorge had said he was executing me in a fine tradition of burning witches. “Oh, did I say witches? I meant bitches.”