Chapter Four: Kidnapped

Clara's POV 

By Thursday, the game of hide-and-seek was completely over.

The black SUV didn't even try to pretend anymore. It had parked right in front of my office building entrance that morning, blowing puffs of white exhaust into the freezing air. When I stepped out for a quick lunch break, I spotted it immediately. It was the exact same vehicle that had been lingering near my apartment building all week—the same one with the deep tinted windows staring up like unblinking eyes.

My heart hammered against my ribs. How was it following me here? Was it tailing my bus every morning, or did these people somehow know every single place I go?

Priya caught me staring out the lobby glass doors during our lunch break. Seeing the pale, sick look on my face, she grabbed my wrist so hard her fingernails bit sharp into my skin.

"Chucky Baby, look at me," Priya whispered, her eyes wide with terror, using that ridiculous, mocking childhood nickname she loved to pull out whenever she wanted my full attention. It always made my skin itch, but right now, I barely registered it. "That truck... that black SUV has been parked outside our office building for three days straight, and it was parked outside your apartment complex all weekend. Are you being stalked? You need to call the cops right now."

"And tell them what?" I yanked my arm back out of her grip, my voice shaking so badly I had to bite my lip. "That a random car is parked on a public street? It’s a commercial district, Priya. Anyone can park here."

"You look like you're going to throw up," she pressed, her voice dropping to an urgent plea. "Your hands are shaking, Clara. Let me help you. We can go to HR, we can file a report—"

"I'm fine, Priya," I lied, though my voice was trembling so hard I could barely get the words out. I forced a stiff, unnatural smile onto my face and turned back toward the lobby, praying she would walk away before she noticed the cold sweat dampening the back of my blouse. I couldn't drag her into this. The closer anyone got to me, the more dangerous their world became.

That evening, as I stood alone in my tiny kitchen with my heavy winter coat still zipped tight against a draft that wasn't there, my phone buzzed violently against my thigh. The vibration rattled my bones.

I pulled it out. A text message from Marcus:

They’re completely out of patience. The board signed off an hour ago. I can get you to a safe house if you trust me for twenty minutes. Corner of Adelaide and Bay. A gray sedan waiting at the curb. The driver’s name is Tomas. Be there now, or you won't make it through the night.

Every instinct in my brain screamed trap. It flashed red and loud in my mind like an emergency siren. A gray sedan? A driver named Tomas? It sounded like something straight out of a cheap spy thriller, a classic setup designed to walk a lamb straight to the slaughterhouse. But running away on my own hadn't worked. I had tried to hide in Toronto; I had tried to pretend Las Vegas never happened, and all it bought me was a ticking clock. I was cornered, exhausted, and carrying a secret that made me a prime target for powerful men with bottomless resources and zero mercy.

At 6:55 PM, I stood shivering on the dark, windy corner of Adelaide and Bay. The wind cut through my wool coat like a knife, chilling me to the bone, but my palms were slick with nervous sweat. A plain gray sedan glided silently up to the curb, its headlights dimmed, its hazard lights blinking once in a secret code. The rear door clicked open on its own, welcoming me into the dark cabin like an open mouth.

"Tomas?" I asked, leaning down toward the tinted window, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack open my sternum.

"Get in," a gravelly, emotionless voice grunted from the front seat.

I didn't have a choice. I slipped inside the dark interior, pulling my coat around me. The second my hips cleared the frame, the doors locked automatically with a sharp, heavy click that echoed in the small space like a jail cell door slamming shut. My stomach flipped over into my throat, tasting like copper and pure panic.

"Wait—where is Marcus?" I demanded, twisting around in the seat. "He said he was meeting us."

"He'll meet us at the safehouse," Tomas said, his voice flat as he stomped hard on the gas pedal. The car surged forward, shooting out into heavy evening traffic with reckless speed.

I twisted around in the back seat, pressing my face against the glass, watching the familiar Toronto street signs vanish into a dark, industrial part of the city near the harbor. The buildings grew taller and uglier, replaced by crumbling warehouses and empty shipping containers. The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up in warning. This wasn't a rescue mission. This was a targeted, clinical extraction.

"Stop the car!" I screamed, panic overriding my common sense as I lunged for the door handle and pulled it frantically with both hands. "Let me out right now! Stop the car!"

Tomas kept his eyes glued to the rearview mirror, saying nothing, his face carved from cold stone. He didn't even blink. I pulled the handle again and again, but it stayed dead and limp in my palm. The child locks were fully engaged, locking me inside my own moving prison.

Before I could draw another breath to scream, a heavy, unyielding arm wrapped around my chest from behind, pinning my elbows to my sides. I hadn't even heard the front passenger seat move. A thick, coarse cloth slammed over my nose and mouth before I could bite down, soaked in a sharp, chemical sting that burned my throat and lungs instantly.

Chloroform.

The realization hit me a fraction of a second before my body rebelled. I thrashed wildly against the upholstery like a trapped animal, kicking my heels hard against the dashboard, my fingers clawing desperately at the arm holding me down. I tried to hold my breath, but the chemical fumes forced their way past my lips. My lungs screamed for clean, sweet air, but every gasping breath filled my head with a thick, dizzy, blinding fog. The streetlights outside smeared into long, golden streaks of pure agony, dancing across the dark ceiling of the car.

Right beside my ear, a quiet, almost gentle voice whispered through the dark, cutting through the roaring sound in my ears: "I'm sorry, Clara. This is the only way to keep you safe from what's coming."

My arms went heavy like lead, useless at my sides. The edges of my vision pinched black, closing in like a camera shutter snapping shut. I slumped sideways across the leather seat, helpless

and defeated, as the world went completely dark.