The van bumped along potholed streets, each jolt sending pain shooting through Sarah's shoulders. Her wrists burned where the zip ties cut into her skin. Across from her, Diego sat motionless, blood dried on his temple, eyes alert despite his apparent submission.
They hadn't been blindfolded—a bad sign. Professionals who intended to release captives would hide their route. These men didn't care what Sarah and Diego saw.
Because they didn't expect them to survive.
Sarah counted turns, noted landmarks through the small window, building a mental map. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. The industrial waterfront materialized outside—abandoned warehouses, empty loading docks. Perfect for making people disappear.
The van stopped. Doors slammed. Footsteps approached.
"Remember," Diego murmured, so quietly she barely heard him. "Whatever happens, we're on the same side now."
Before Sarah could respond, the back doors swung open. Thompson and another agent hauled them out, shoving them toward a rusted war
