Chapter 2 - THE SILVER LOCKET
The drive to the safehouse was a blur of neon lights and driving rain.
The woman didn’t speak again. She just sat shivering, clutching my coat around her battered frame like it was the only armor left in the world.
Marco kept his eyes on the rearview mirror, checking for tails. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. We both knew the silence in the SUV wasn't peace. It was the eye of the storm.
"Doc Evans is ready," Marco said quietly, his voice cutting through the hum of the engine. "We're two minutes out."
I nodded, keeping my focus on the woman. Her good eye fluttered, fighting unconsciousness.
"Stay awake," I ordered. Not a request. A lifeline.
She flinched at the harshness in my tone but forced her eye open. "I'm tired," she rasped.
"I know. But you don't get to sleep yet. You still haven't told me your name."
She swallowed hard. "Elena."
"Just Elena?"
"It’s safer that way."
The safehouse was an unassuming brick clinic on the edge of the industrial district, operated by a doctor who lost his license years ago but never lost his skills. Marco pulled into the alley, cutting the headlights.
I didn't wait for him to open the door. I stepped out into the rain and reached in for Elena. She hesitated, her bruised fingers gripping the leather seat, before she finally let me lift her. She weighed nothing. It made that cold knot in my stomach tighten even more.
Doc Evans was waiting in the back room, surgical lights blazing. He didn't ask questions. He took one look at Elena, pointed to the steel table, and got to work.
"Broken ribs. Severe contusions. Dehydration," Doc muttered as he carefully cut away her torn shirt. "Whoever did this knew exactly where to hit to maximize pain without causing internal bleeding. This is professional work, Dominic."
"I know."
"She’s going to need stitches on her shoulder and fluids. A lot of fluids."
I stood by the door, watching as Elena stared blankly at the ceiling. She didn't cry when the needle pierced her skin. She didn't make a sound. That bothered me more than screaming would have.
"Dominic," Marco called from the corner of the room. He was holding the shredded remains of Elena's shirt.
I walked over. He pointed to the hem.
Sewn tightly into the fabric, almost invisible, was a small, tarnished silver locket.
"She had this hidden," Marco whispered.
I took the locket. It was heavy, cold metal. The clasp was jammed, probably from the beating she took. I pulled my pocket knife, wedging the blade into the seam, and popped it open.
Inside, there was a small, folded photograph.
I carefully flattened the paper. The breath completely left my lungs.
It was a picture of a little boy, maybe six years old. He had dark, messy hair and a crooked smile. But it wasn't the boy that froze my blood. It was the man standing next to him, holding his hand.
It was my brother, Julian.
Julian, who had been killed in a car bomb five years ago. Julian, whose ashes I had personally scattered.
I looked up at Elena. The painkillers were kicking in, her eye drooping.
I walked to the table, holding the open locket in front of her face. "Where did you get this?" my voice was dangerously quiet.
Her eye snapped open. Panic flooded her bruised face. She tried to sit up, but Doc Evans pushed her gently back down.
"Give it back!" she screamed, her voice tearing. "Please, give it back!"
"Where did you get a picture of my dead brother?"
She was hyperventilating now, thrashing against the doctor's grip. "He's not dead! He wasn't dead! They took him!"
The room went dead silent. Only the steady beep of the heart monitor echoed off the tile walls.
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"What did you say?" I asked, stepping closer.
"Julian," she sobbed, tears finally breaking through the blood and dirt on her cheeks. "He's my husband. And Vincent Caldwell has our son."
