Chapter 122
Chapter 122:
The warehouse smelled of the ocean — not the fresh, breezy scent of the shore, but the rotting, stagnant smell of dead fish and oil. Wind howled through gaps in the corrugated metal walls, making the shadows shudder and dance.
Jared dragged Eliza across the floor. The wood beneath her feet was soft and pulpy with decay. Through the gaps in the planks, she could see the dark, churning water of the Hudson River twenty feet below.
He shoved her into a rusted metal chair and tied her ankles together, leaving her wrists still bound behind her back.
“Comfortable, Mrs. Koch?” Jared sneered, pacing in front of her. The gun in his waistband gleamed under the single swaying bulb.
He pulled out a digital camera. “Time for an insurance policy.” He hit record. The red light blinked.
Jared grabbed a fistful of her hair and forced her head back. Pain radiated down her neck.
“Tell him you’re scared,” he commanded.
Eliza stared into the black lens. She thought of Dallas. She thought of the way he had looked at her that morning — as though she were the only sunrise he ever wanted to see. She would not give this man the satisfaction of her fear. She would not let Dallas see her break.
“Don’t come, Dallas,” she said, her voice clear and defiant. “It’s a trap p>
𝗪𝗁𝘢t 𝗲𝗏𝘦𝘳yoո𝖾 𝗶𝗌 𝗋𝘦𝗮𝖽𝘪ո𝗀 𝗼n
Jared snarled. “Wrong line, princess p>
He swung his hand. The slap cracked through the empty warehouse. Eliza’s head snapped to the side and the taste of copper flooded her mouth.
The video cut.
Jared tapped his phone. “Sent. To your husband. And just for fun —” He scrolled through her contacts. “A special delivery for your old keeper p>
The file shot across the city’s network — a small packet of digital cruelty dispatched in two directions at once. One copy was bound for a speeding Aston Martin. The other found its mark in the quiet, suffocating opulence of Hyde Manor, where Anson Hyde’s phone buzzed on a mahogany desk.
He pressed play.
He watched the man grab her hair. He heard her brave, defiant voice. Then he saw the slap.
The crystal tumbler in Anson’s hand shattered. Whiskey and blood dripped onto the expensive Persian rug.
He rewound the video and zoomed in on the man’s face. Solder. The disgruntled guard he’d fired years ago.
“He touched her,” Anson whispered. A terrifying rage built in his chest — less about her safety than about the violation of what he considered his. He crossed to his desk, unlocked the bottom drawer, and pulled out a snub-nosed revolver.
His thumb found a number he had memorized long ago.
That chaotic rage traveled through the airwaves and pierced the cold, focused silence Dallas had built around himself inside the roaring Aston Martin. His phone rang — Anson’s name blazing on the dashboard display. He answered, the call blaring through the speakers.
“I saw the video,” Anson’s voice came through, ragged. “Solder sent me the location. The old Chapman docks. Pier 4 p>
“Stay away, Hyde,” Dallas said, his voice a low growl barely contained over the engine’s scream. “You’ll get her killed p>