Chapter 11 - The Forced Door And The Empty Hallway
The ride back from the precinct should have felt like a victory, but the sharp, acidic hum of anxiety never left the back of my throat. Adrian's car crawled down our familiar, dimly lit residential street, the tires crunching softly over gravel patches near the curb. When we pulled up in front of the brick apartment building, the second-floor hallway window was dark, save for the faint amber glow of the lobby bulb.
"Stay in the car for a moment," Adrian instructed, his voice dropping into that low, level register that brooked no argument. He shifted into park, his eyes scanning the shadowed corners of the sidewalk before he pushed his door open.
I waited three agonizing seconds, my fingers gripping the strap of my canvas tote bag until my knuckles turned white. Isabella was curled up in the back seat, half-asleep against the plush leather headrest, still clutching her wooden music box with both arms. She had barely spoken since we left the federal building, the weight of the past forty-eight hours draining her usual bright energy.
Adrian stepped back to the rear door and pulled it open, his expression grim. "Lena. Come with me. But keep your voice down."
My heart hammered against my ribs. I scrambled out of the sedan, following him up the worn concrete steps to the main entrance. The heavy metal security door, usually locked tight against solicitors and street traffic, stood slightly ajar. The brass latch plate was splintered clean off the wood frame, dangling by a single screw.
"No," I whispered, the word tearing out of my chest as I shoved past him into the vestibule.
The inner hallway smelled faintly of stale cigarette smoke and melted plastic. We rushed up the stairs, my boots clattering against the metal treads until we reached apartment 2B. The door was wide open, the deadbolt sheared straight through by a heavy hydraulic tool. Inside, the small living room was utterly destroyed. Books were scattered across the floor, cushions slashed open, and the kitchen drawers upended.
"Isabella!" I screamed, running down the narrow corridor toward the back bedroom.
The small room was empty. The pastel-colored quilt on her twin bed was tossed aside, and the bedside lamp lay shattered on the braided rug. On the bare mattress, someone had left a single business card embossed with the gold seal of Preston's corporate legal syndicate.
Adrian appeared in the doorway, his hand braced against the splintered frame, his chest heaving. His dark eyes swept the room, taking in every detail of the forced entry before locking onto the card in my trembling hand.
"They took her," I choked out, my vision blurring with hot, furious tears as the air left my lungs. "They took my niece."
"They're trying to force a trade," Adrian said, his voice terrifyingly calm, though a muscle feathered sharply in his jaw. He pulled his phone from his coat pocket with ruthless speed. "Preston's locked up, but his fixers are still on the loose. They think we have the master drive."
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"Find them," I pleaded, grabbing the lapel of his charcoal suit. "Adrian, help me find her."
"I'm already calling every federal contact we have," he promised, pulling me close for a single, grounding heartbeat before tapping his screen. "We get her back today. No matter what it takes."
