Chapter 7 - The Abduction
Pain was the first sensation that returned.
It was a sharp, throbbing ache radiating from her left temple down into her jaw. Maren slowly forced her heavy eyelids open, her senses disoriented and sluggish.
She was sitting tied to a heavy steel support pillar inside a cavernous, abandoned warehouse. The air smelled of rotting timber, sea brine, and stagnant motor oil. High, broken clerestory windows allowed thin shafts of gray daylight to filter through the gloom, revealing rusted machinery and stacks of rotting wooden pallets.
Her hands were bound behind the pillar with heavy zip-ties.
Her head felt strangely light. Instinctively, she twitched her ears.
Nothing.
Her black ceramic processors had been torn from her ears and lay smashed into pieces on the damp concrete floor five feet in front of her. The world was once again an impenetrable, soundless void.
Maren took a slow, deep breath, fighting down the rising tide of hysteria. *Think,* she ordered herself. *Dorian said panic is what gets you killed. Look. Read. Observe.*
She shifted her gaze toward the center of the warehouse.
Standing twenty feet away, laughing with a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, was Julian Cassian. Beside him stood Councilman Arthur Vance, looking disheveled, manic, and desperate, clutching a leather briefcase to his chest.
And standing directly in front of Maren, pacing back and forth on four-inch stilettos with a look of unhinged malice, was Celia Vance.
Celia had discarded her high-society elegance. She wore a stained trench coat, her hair wild, her eyes hollow and bloodshot with rage. She had clearly been freed on bail arranged by Cassian’s corrupt judges, and she was unraveling by the second.
Seeing Maren awake, Celia lunged forward.
She grabbed Maren’s chin with manicured nails, digging into her flesh with vicious force. Celia’s lips moved rapidly, spitting words filled with poison.
Maren focused entirely on Celia’s mouth, translating the violent, erratic movements of her lips:
*“...wake up, you pathetic little deaf bitch! Look at you now! Where is your protector? Where is your mafia king? He’s walking right into Julian’s slaughterhouse at Pier 9!”*
Maren stared into Celia’s bloodshot eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a single tear.
Celia sneered, turning toward Julian Cassian. She waved her hands dramatically, mouthing: *“Call him! Tell him she’s here! Tell him that if he doesn't sign over the deep-water shipping manifests, I’ll slit her throat myself!”*
Cassian shook his head with cold contempt. He pulled a satellite phone from his pocket, dialled a number, and held the phone up, turning on the speakerphone.
Maren watched Cassian’s lips move: *“Hartwell. We have your little songbird.”*
Even without sound, Maren could see the physical shift in the room. The men standing guard with automatic rifles straightened their postures, their faces growing tense.
Cassian’s smug grin slowly faded as he listened to whatever voice was emanating from that speaker. His jaw tightened.
Cassian spoke again, his lips shaping harsh, hurried demands: *“Pier 4, dry dock three. Come alone, Hartwell. You bring one man from your syndicate, and the girl goes into the harbor with fifty pounds of scrap iron chained to her ankles.”*
Cassian hung up the phone. He looked at Arthur Vance. *“Get the boat ready. Once Hartwell enters the dry dock, we trigger the charges on the support pilings. We crush him under twenty tons of concrete, board the trawler, and head for international waters.”*
Arthur Vance nodded frantically, scurrying toward the rear exit of the warehouse.
Celia turned back to Maren. She pulled a pearl-handled folding knife from her pocket, the blade catching the cold gray light as it flicked open.
She stepped closer, placing the cold flat of the steel against Maren’s jugular.
Maren didn't look at the knife. She looked straight into Celia’s twisted, envious eyes.
Using her own clear, steady voice—a voice that rang out against the concrete walls of the warehouse—Maren spoke:
“Dorian is going to tear you apart.”
Celia’s face contorted in shock. She hadn't expected the captive, deaf maid to speak with such icy authority. Celia raised her hand to strike Maren across the face with the heavy brass handle of the knife.
She never landed the blow.
A deafening shockwave shattered the clerestory windows eighty feet above.
Even without her hearing aids, Maren felt the physical concussion slam through her chest like a sledgehammer. Glass rained down like diamond dust from the rafters.
Through the collapsing roof, three black tactical ropes descended.
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And descending with them, moving with the terrifying, predatory speed of an avenging demon, was Dorian Hartwell.
***