Chapter 889
Parker stared at the screen. His heart hammered against his ribs like something desperate to get out. Every instinct he had honed during the war with the Mastermind screamed that this was a setup.
But it was Liam. Liam, who had taken a bullet for Skye. Liam, who had walked into hell to save them all.
Parker didn’t call Alistair. He didn’t call Skye. If Liam was being held, involving the Thorne faction might get him killed.
“Damn it,” Parker whispered.
Jо𝗶𝘯 𝘵𝗁о𝘂𝘀𝖺𝗻𝘥ѕ 𝗼𝖿 𝘧𝖺𝗇ѕ 𝗈𝗻 𝗴𝖺𝗅ո𝗈𝗏𝘦𝗹𝘀.𝖼om
He rushed to his car and drove away from the financial district, heading toward the industrial decay of the West End.
The shipyard was a graveyard of industry. Rusted cranes loomed overhead like skeletal dinosaurs, and the air tasted of salt and old oil. Fog clung to the ground, swirling around stacks of shipping containers that formed a labyrinth of oxidized metal.
Parker parked outside the gate and reached under his seat to retrieve a tactical stun baton — a gift from Felix. It felt heavy and foreign in his hand.
He moved into the maze.
“Liam?” he called out, his voice swallowed by the damp air. “Liam!”
Silence. Only the distant slap of waves against rotten pilings.
He found Container 4B. The door was slightly ajar, darkness pooling inside.
Parker tightened his grip on the baton, his palm sweating. “Liam, are you in there?”
He pushed the door open.
It was empty. No — not entirely empty. A single chair sat in the center of the container. On the chair, a phone.
Parker frowned and stepped inside.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the trap sprung.
Shadows detached from the corners — men in black tactical gear, silent and fast. Parker spun, swinging the baton. Electricity crackled, blue and sharp. He connected with the first man, sending him convulsing to the floor.
“Back off!” Parker shouted, adrenaline flooding his system.
But he was an engineer, a hacker — not a fighter.
A second man lunged and tackled him around the waist. Parker went down hard, the breath driven from his lungs. He scrambled, kicking out, but a heavy boot stamped onto his wrist. The baton skittered away across the metal floor.
“Secure him,” a voice rasped from the darkness.
Parker looked up, gasping. Through the open container door, high on a stack of crates against the grey sky, a silhouette stood in a long coat wearing a silver mask that reflected the dull morning light. The figure raised one hand in a slow, deliberate signal.
“Who are you?” Parker wheezed.
No answer. Just that raised hand coming down.
A rifle butt slammed into the back of Parker’s head.
The world exploded into white light, then went instantly black.
Outside, in the tall grass where Parker had dropped his phone, the screen lit up.
Incoming Call: Liam Kensington.
It rang into the silence of the shipyard, unanswered — a digital cry for help that no one heard.