But seeing this place, even as it is, feels good. It takes me back to those rare memories of hope, and right now, it's something to cling to.

  I need that.

  Revenge and memories—that's all I've got now.

  Rook turns and looks down the lone road approaching the old brewery. He squints, shading his eyes against the high sun.

  "They're coming. We should get in position. Oh, and Bullet?"

  "Yeah, Rook?"

  "I know Madison broke up with you earlier, and you must be feeling like shit right now. Now's the time to stuff it down and deal with that later. I'm not your counselor, I don't have any words of wisdom for you, except to tell you this: if you fuck things up and keep me from getting back to Eliza, or if you ruin this ransom exchange and cost me the money I was going to use to take her on a vacation—because my lady works too damn hard and needs a fucking break after all this—I will kill you. Murder you in a way that’s so brutal and bloody that people will remember it for generations. And if Alexander and his men get to you first, don't think that'll save you. I'll find a way to bring you back to life just so I can kill you again. Are we clear?"

  I watch the pair of SUVs approach, can feel my needed revenge drawing closer, too.

  "I won't fuck this up. I've sacrificed too much to get us here."

  Rook draws his gun, taps it, and keeps it in a loose grip. "Better not. Now, let's get into position.”

  He and I move deeper into the brewery, deeper into the stink, the rot, the dark.

  The air is tense, thick, and choking.

  My heart beats with rage as the moment draws closer. Rage at everything, past and present and future, that Alexander has robbed from me.

  The pair of dark SUVs arrive. The vehicles pull to a stop, the doors open, and out steps Alexander, flanked by six of his hired thugs, all heavily armed and muscular. I can feel my grip on my gun tighten as they come closer. Alexander looks around, his gaze cold and contemptuous as he takes in the scene before him.

  "So, this is who my money is going to," he says with a sneer. "Two insignificant fucking peons on bikes."

  Rook steps forward, his gun raised and pointed at Alexander's head.

  "Yeah, it’s nice to see you, too," he says coolly. "Now shut your fucking mouth and hand over the money."

  "This is how you do business?" Alexander snorts and rolls his eyes. Then those piercing, pompous eyes settle on me. "You just don't die, do you, Jackson? I have to say, I thought your similarities to the common cockroach started and ended with your propensity to live amongst trash, but I guess I was wrong."

  "Money. Now," I say, gesturing with my gun.

  Alexander's six thugs heft their weapons and look to their boss.

  "And then?" Alexander says.

  It sounds less like a question and more like a promise, as if he wants exactly what I want—to finally introduce murder into our relationship. I knew the second he stepped out of his vehicle and gave me that derisive, denigrating look of recognition that there is only one way things could end between us, and I can’t wait to rip the money out of his cold, dead hands.

  "Then you get the location where we're keeping Madison. You give us the money, you get her. Pretty simple transaction, unless something like that is too much for your brilliant business mind?"

  A snap of his fingers, a nod of his head is all it takes to put things in motion. "Get the money. Let's get this over with."

  Five of the men tense, fingers resting tight to the triggers of their guns. The sixth man walks to one vehicle and pulls out a heavily laden duffel bag.

  As the man brings it to me, I lock eyes with Alexander. Peering into his repulsive orbs, I hunt for something more than arrogance, something closer to defeat, to pain, to regret. I want to see him suffer. I want him to feel this defeat. Deep down, I need it. If I can’t have love, at least I can have hate. At least I can take that from today. I may have lost the person most important to me, but I’ve still won. It doesn't matter how much money Alexander has, how much above me society thinks he is, I still beat him.

  "Go ahead. Open it. It's all there," Alexander says. There's a ghastly hint of a smile on his face and a twinge of anticipation in his voice.

  Rook and I trade wary glances.

  He nods, his finger moving an imperceptible amount closer to his trigger; something isn't right, but no matter what it is, if Alexander tries anything, Rook will be ready to send a bullet right into his heart.

  Ready for all hell to break loose, I open the bag.

  Inside, I see a pile of bills, twenties, fifties, and hundreds, all immaculately fresh and banded together as if straight from the printing press at the federal mint. I exhale in relief. It’s all here: the money to give to Madison, the money to set my father up and keep him safe, the money to take care of everyone else I care about.

  Then I spy something else. It’s rectangular, metal and plastic with a glass screen: a phone.

  I take it out.

  "What the fuck is this?"

  "The button on the side. Press it. Turn it on," he says, his voice growing from anticipatory to mocking. “Go on, Jackson.”

  I press the button, and the screen comes to life.

  On it, I see an image that stops my heart. I stand, frozen, staring, shocked and in disbelief as a nightmare shimmers on the silvery cellphone screen. What I'm seeing can't be real. There's no way.

  Rook curses again as he catches sight of the phone.

  "I should've known better to trust that this rich, silver spoon motherfucker would've held to the deal. Or that a gigantic fucking idiot like you, Bullet, was even worth the risk. Fuck you all, I'm out of here. I’m through with this fucking shit."

  With that, Rook pulls the trigger, and an intensely loud crack erupts from his gun with as much earth-shaking fury as a thunderclap during a lightning storm. There's a puff, a flash, and then Alexander lets out a shout of surprise as the bullet hits him square in the chest.

  He drops.

  Then all hell erupts.

  Roaring, Rook becomes a tornado of violence, his gun unleashing bloody mayhem.

  "Fuck you, Alexander. Fuck you, Bullet. Fuck all of you all in this ridiculous fucking enterprise. Fuck you all to hell and back with a red-hot poker, you worthless pieces of shit."

  The other men return fire and the air fills with the pungent smell of gunpowder and screams of pain.

  But Rook's aim is dead on, and he's a better shot than anyone has any right to be. While running, he sends a bullet into the forehead of the first bodyguard he fires at. The next man—a rifle-toting thug who is standing between Rook and his motorcycle—Rook hits in the shoulder, then the knees, forcing him to buckle over, screaming, as Rook runs by. Rook slows for a second to bash him in the head with the butt of his gun and then finishes him with a shot to the back of his skull. Blood, bone, and brain-matter blast out what used to be his face, coating the grimy concrete floor in viscera.

  "Fuck you all," Rook screams.

  He climbs atop his motorcycle, still firing, pinning the other men down with a hail of bullets. Rook then starts his motorcycle and revs the engine, burning rubber and filling the air with acrid smoke.

  I stand, frozen, my eyes still glued to the phone.

  On it, I see her.

  She’s alone, walking hurriedly down the streets of Costa Oscura, with her eyes wide and terrified, and most frightening of all, an imperceptible red sniper’s dot sitting at the center of her chest.

  Maddy.

  As the combat stills, silence fills the warehouse. Even though so much of me is screaming for me to put my gun to use, I can't look away from the phone in my hands.

  Because I still love her.

  Because, in that moment, I understand the gravity of the mistake I’ve made by coming here instead of going with her.

  Because, in that moment, I know that Maddy and her love mean more to me than revenge.

  Then Alexander's laughter reverberates through the warehouse, chilling me to the core. He sits up, smiling, and lifts the tailored shirt of his too-expensive suit to reveal a bulletproof vest.

  "You didn't think I'd come here in good faith, did you? That I wouldn't figure you out? That I wouldn't be prepared? Jackson, for someone who I thought had already reached rock bottom in terms of disappointing me with your ineptitude, you continue to break new ground."

  His mocking words stir me to action, and I level my gun at his face.

  "Do it, Jackson," he says. "Think. How many times have I tried to kill you? Pay me back. Do it. But know that the second you do, she'll die, too, and you can watch it happen right there on that phone in your hands." He laughs, and yet his eyes flicker to my gun, a hint of disturbance behind their mockery. "I shouldn't have to spell this out for you, but I will, since your idiocy knows no bounds: I have men watching her, and that red dot on her chest, well, even you know what that is."

  For a long moment, I weigh my options: Alexander doesn't know we're broken up. That the only thing between Maddy and me now is an impersonal business transaction and a hell of a lot of heartache. He doesn’t know that the only thing I’m clinging to is my need to see his blood spilled on this concrete.

  I could still do it. Could still pull the trigger and earn that bloody revenge that I so desperately crave. If I do it right, if I shoot Alexander right between his eyes and make my escape, I’ll come out of it with his blood on my hands and a duffel bag full of money.

  Assuming his other thugs don't kill me before I can get away.

  They likely will.

  But it just might be worth it to see the look of surprise on Alexander's face just before he dies. Just before I die.

  It really might be worth it.

  Except I still love her.

  Desperately.

  Money, my freedom, my life, none of it matters compared to her.

  "What do you want?" I say.

  A snap of his fingers has one of his men take out handcuffs. Another, a black bag to go over my head. They approach and, knowing what's at stake, who's at stake, I stay still.

  "You," he says. "Don't worry, I'm not going to kill you. Yet. Not for a very long time."

  My last sight before the handcuffs cinch around my wrists and that black bag slides over my head is Alexander's mocking grin.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Madison

  The anguish from breaking up with Jackson lessens as I slip off of Marcus' motorcycle and feel how truly right it is to be back on campus. This is what I worked so hard for. This dream kept me going through four years of Alexander's torture, and it’s that hope that I cling to now, even though those brights spots that I envisioned in my future seem so much dimmer now without Jackson’s love. I brush tears from my eyes and reach into my pocket and take out the flash drive. Something so small and insignificant, bought at an Office Depot for less than five bucks, holds my key to finally earning my degree, to controlling my future. Me, controlling my future; not my parents, not my evil, arranged fiance—me.

  My degree is my independence, my self-determination, my future.

  Everything important to me.

  Yet now, even that sweetness seems bittersweet for what I’ve lost.

  “Lets go and get this over with,” I say, gesturing for Marcus to follow.

  A quick stop at the campus library to print off my thesis paper leads to another stop at the campus bookstore to buy a laminated cover and have it spiral-bound, which finally results in me standing outside my professor's door, with my hands shaking, heart thumping, and sweat beading on my brow.

  Minutes from now, I'll have turned in my paper, signed the forms, and I'll be done with this journey.

  "I'll be right down the hall, Maddy," Marcus says. His voice snaps me out of my apprehensive reverie. Until now, I'd been so focused on putting my paper together, in making this monumental paper look presentable, that I'd forgotten he was with me.

  "Thank you, Thunder,” I say.

  He smiles at hearing me use the nickname he’s so proud of.

  "I’ll be keeping an eye out. Jackson will call any minute now, too."

  I nod, not even taking my eyes off the door to my professor's office. The prospect of being rich enough to change the course of my life and the lives of everyone I care about doesn't distract me from what's really important: what waits for me inside this door.

  "Good luck," Marcus says, then he leaves.

  "Thank you," I whisper.

  It's so quiet I doubt he can hear it, but I can't speak any louder with my heart in my throat.

  It all ends now.

  Then I open the door.

  Professor Braithewaite looks up from his computer as the door opens. His desk is clean, neat, organized. Everything on it—from the planner, to the scratchpad, to the penholder and the keyboard—sits at precise angles from one another, which is to be expected from someone who cares so much about Quantitative Analysis that they've given up on working in the higher-paying finance field and want to teach it to others instead, just to make sure it’s taught right.

  "Ms. Sinclair, this is a surprise. I hadn't expected to see you today, especially after your string of absences. Are you all right?"

  His surprise sets me back a bit, but it doesn't shock me; I've been absent a lot, and I don't blame him for making a comment with a slight edge to it.

  "I'm sorry, professor. I had some personal business come up that, well, made my life difficult for a while." Such a simple way to sum up reuniting with the ill-fated love of my life and orchestrating a life-changing fake kidnapping. "But I'm here to turn my thesis paper in."

  "Your thesis paper?" His voice is quizzical. “You’re here to turn it in?”

  Maybe he didn't expect me to even show up at all. Again, I don't hold it against him after the way I've behaved lately.

  I hold the thesis paper out to him. My hands shake slightly with excitement. This is the moment. This is what I've ached for—it's finally coming true.

  "Yes. I printed it off and bound it, just like you requested. I'm here to turn it in and sign the declaration that I didn't cheat, too."

  When he doesn't stand and take it, instead just sitting there, staring at me, confused, I set the paper on the desk in front of him and then grab a pen from his penholder. I've been through too much, risked too much, to get to this moment and I won't let his befuddlement hold me back.

  "Professor?"

  "Ms. Sinclair, what is this?"

  "This is me, turning in my paper. And borrowing a pen to sign the declaration," I say. "Is something wrong?"

  "Why is your paper printed?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Why not just email it to me like the rest of your class?"

  My heart falls. Down, down, down into the yawning dark depths of mortal terror.

  "Because you and the rest of the school administration said it had to be printed and all the students had to sign declarations saying that their work is theirs alone, that they didn't use some cheating program or whatever."

  Or whatever.

  My possibly last words before my heart hits rock bottom and terror overtakes me are 'or whatever.'

  "They—and I—said no such thing. Where are you getting your information, Ms. Sinclair?"

  I'm mute for a while. A long while. While my brain runs a calculus that it never thought it'd have to perform: why would Ashley lie to me?

  As it adds the incomprehensible pieces into a solution that I'm not sure I want to know, a soul-swallowing sense of dread comes over me and I put the pen back in the penholder—because, even terrified, I'm not a pen-stealing asshole—and then I run out into the hallway.

  Something is wrong. Terribly wrong.

  I have to get to Marcus. We have to get out of here, because one of my dear friends just lied to me, to bring me here, at this moment, for some reason I don't know. The implications of that fill me with utter dread.

  The door slams behind me, startling several students passing by, and I throw my eyes left and right, looking for Marcus. Which way did he say he'd go? Has he heard from Jackson yet? Maybe he'll know what's going on.

  First one way, and then the other, I run down the hallway, looking for him.

  When I don't see him at the first end, I call out his name, "Marcus? Where are you?" but receive no answer.

  The other end of the hall yields nothing but emptiness and fills me with apocalyptic horror.

  Where did he go?

  Did he abandon me, or did something else happen?

  Suddenly, I have the sense that I'm being watched. Not just by the passing students, who are understandably staring at me like I'm having a mental breakdown—which I am—and are logically giving me a wide berth, but by someone else. Someone sinister.

  I'm alone. Alone and in danger. Yet not alone.

  Frantically, my brain scrambles for answers and clutches to the resolution that, no matter what is happening, I have to get out of here. I have to go on the run.

  My first stop should be my apartment. I have things there—money, credit cards, clothes, a passport—that I will need on the run.

  I take off running down the hall, my heart galloping in my chest. Every step I take feels like it's echoing through the entire building, calling out for my pursuers to come find me. I can't shake the dreadful feeling that someone is following me, yet every time I turn around, no one is there.

  I make it to the stairwell and descend the stairs two at a time. My mind is racing, trying to figure out what's going on. Why would Ashley lie to me? Where is Marcus? As hard as I try to stay calm, I can't shake the suffocating feeling that something is terribly wrong; I have to run; I have to get to my apartment; I have to escape.