Page 133 of The Beast

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The drive takes forever. Or maybe it takes no time at all. It’s hard to tell when you’re zip-tied in the back of an SUV with a hood over your head, your mouth taped shut, and terror clawing at your throat.

My heart won’t stop racing. Every beat feels too fast, too hard, like my body knows something terrible is coming and is trying to outrun it. My wrists hurt where the ties dig into my skin, and my mouth is dry.

The air is stale under this hood, and I can barely breathe—each inhale pulls in the smell of my own sweat and the filthy scent of the material, like decay. Like someone died wearing this hood.

Like I might.

Please, no. Please, God, no.

I try to track our movements—left turn, right turn, the bump of a pothole, the hiss of tires on wet pavement. But I lose the thread. Atlantic City’s streets blur together even when you can see them. Blind and bound, I have no chance. And how would I get a message out, anyway?

The men in the SUV don’t speak. Not to me, not to each other. They’re professionals.

Not surprising. My father always did hire the best.

When the SUV finally stops, hands grab me roughly and haul me out. I stumble on uneven ground—gravel, maybe, or broken asphalt—and nearly fall. Someone yanks me upright by the arm hard enough to wrench my shoulder. I bite back a cry. I won’t give them the satisfaction.

There’s a new smell now. Something chemical I can’t identify. An industrial plant? I know there are a lot on the outskirts of the city. Some busy. Some abandoned.

The kind of places where people disappear, and no one ever finds them.

Gabe. Please, Gabe. Please find me.

They march me forward. A door creaks open, the hinges screaming with rust.

The acoustics change—we’re inside now, our footsteps echoing off hard floors and high ceilings.

The hood’s ripped off.

I blink in the sudden light. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, and when they do, I almost wish for the darkness back.

We’re in an industrial warehouse. Old and abandoned. Water stains streak the concrete walls. Pigeons nest in the exposed rafters, their cooing eerily soft against the cavernous silence. The windows are so grimy they barely let in the gray morning light.

And there, standing in the center of the space like he owns it—which he probably does—is my father.

But not the Sterling Hart I know. Not the master of the universe. This man looks fragile. Like one strong kick would break him.

He’s aged ten years in the few days since I’ve seen him. The silver hair that always seemed distinguished now just looks gray. The tailored suit hangs wrong on his frame. And his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—are rimmed with red, like he hasn’t slept in days.

“I wish it hadn’t come to this,” he says. Almost casual. As if I’m still sixteen and he’s imposing a curfew.

“Then let me go.”

He sighs. Actually sighs, like I’m being unreasonable. Like I’m the one who had him kidnapped at gunpoint.

“I can’t do that.”

“You can. You just won’t.” I yank against the zip-ties behind my back, even though I know it’s useless. The plastic bites deeper into my wrists. “I’m your daughter. Your only child. Whatever you have planned—don’t do this.”

“You need to understand⁠—”

“Understand what?” The words explode out of me. “That you’re a murderer? That you tried to kill the man I love? That you’ve been lying to me my entire life?”

“I’ve been protecting you your entire life.” His voice sharpens, and for a moment I see the father I grew up with—the one who controlled every room, who made grown men cry in boardrooms. “Everything I’ve done has been for you.”

“Bullshit.”