Chapter Four
Callum
Callum sat with his back against the cold concrete wall, staring at his phone. Above him, a single light gave off an anemic orange glow. The noises of the factory had long since stopped, but the silence that had replaced them was worse. He had always hated this place at night—it made him feel like he was the last person on earth, alone in a nuclear bunker miles below ground.
Except that tonight he knew he wasn’t alone. Tonight, the quiet sobs of a frightened child kept reaching his ears through the walls. And that was worse than the silence could ever be.
He tried to focus on the book he had open. It was about fifteenth-century Chinese history, a fascinating subject but something his father would no doubt see as useless. But he was already here doing what his father had asked of him, shoving his conscience to the back of his mind like a good son; he wasn’t going to let his father dictate his reading material too. He read to himself under his breath, raising his voice as the girl sobbed again. If he focused hard enough on the words, maybe he could forget that she was back there. It wasn’t as if worrying about her would do any good. All the sympathy in the world wouldn’t save her from his father’s plans.
A memory entered his mind unbidden. He had been the girl’s age, maybe a couple of years younger. He had been playing kickball in the park a couple of blocks away—normally he did everything he could to avoid games that involved running and sweating and getting dirty, but on that day Alec had talked him into it, bribing him with the promise of a new comic book. With his brother yelling encouragement in his ears, he had caught the ball in the air, for the first and only time—and just as he had whooped in triumph, his father had come down the sidewalk looking for them. They weren’t supposed to be out playing with friends, but before the lecture had started, his father had met his eyes and smiled the kind of smile that he normally reserved for Alec. That was the last time his father had ever looked at him like he was proud of him.
His father had watched him and Alec grow up. He had seen the two of them at the same age this girl was now. How could he see the two of them as children, and the girl in the room as a product to be sold? Did sharing the same blood make that much of a difference in his father’s mind? Was everyone outside his family simply a resource to be used?
There were things more important than blood. Like decency. Like humanity.
The girl sniffled loudly, then gulped like she was trying to get her breathing under control. Callum had carefully avoided looking through the door after that first glimpse, but that didn’t stop him from seeing her in her mind’s eye, sitting with her arms wrapped around her legs as she squeezed her eyes shut to force the tears back. He had spent more childhood evenings than he could count in that same position, curled up on his bed nursing the bruises his father had given him, knowing that if he made a single sound his father would suspect that he was crying and try to beat the remaining weakness out of him.
He blinked the blur from his eyes—he wasn’t crying, not now, he hadn’t cried in years—and tried to focus on reading about Zheng He’s expedition to Africa.
The girl had gone quiet. Good. Now Callum didn’t have to think too hard about what he was doing, or how much of his humanity he was trading away for his father’s respect.
It wasn’t just about getting into his father’s good graces, though. It was about his own survival. If he didn’t do this, his father would make good on his threat to send him to London, and he already knew how that would end.
It was him or the girl. Every man for himself. Wasn’t that what his father had always taught him?
Before he could tell himself what a bad idea it was, he pushed himself to his feet and unbolted the door. It opened easily.
The girl looked up as he entered the small room. Her eyes widened in fear, and she backed away.
He held up his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The frightened look didn’t leave her face. But she stopped moving.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Leila. Who are you?” Her voice was lower than he expected, and calmer. He had expected her to be panicked, but as her eyes flicked from his face to the door, he could almost see her evaluating the situation in her mind, weighing her options, watching for her chance to escape.
He tried to make his voice sound as non-threatening as possible. “I’m Callum.”
“What are you doing here?”
What was he supposed to tell her? I’m the guard assigned to keep you from escaping? I’m the son of the man who is keeping you here? But while he searched for an answer to give her, his mouth went ahead and answered without him. “I’m here to help you.”
Something else entered her eyes then—a flicker of hope. And he cursed himself for putting it there, because he knew there was no way he could get her out of here.
She met his gaze and held it for a disconcertingly long time, like she was trying to discern any hint of a lie in his face. He waited for the hope in her eyes to turn into betrayal as she realized who he was, and that his offer of help had been nothing but an empty promise. But when she finally looked away, the last of the fear dropped from her face, and the soft noise she made sounded like a sigh of relief.
She thought he meant it. She thought he could help her. Was she right? In that moment, he wanted nothing more than for that to be the case.
“Can you get me out of here?” she asked. “Like now?” She started for the door.
Reluctantly, not wanting to spoil the look of relief on her face, he shook his head. “My fa— the man who owns this building keeps guards around it all day and all night. As soon as we stepped outside, they’d see us.”
She tightened her lips at his words, and her eyes dropped, but she didn’t start crying again. “Then you need to go here.” She rattled off an address on the outskirts of the city.
“Is that where your family lives?”
She shook her head no, but then said, “It’s my father. My mom told me that if I was ever in serious trouble, he could help me. He was in the army, you know. Special Forces. My mom says he’s earned a bunch of medals.” A hint of pride broke through her matter-of-fact tone.
That sounded like someone who might actually have a prayer of rescuing this girl.
“What about your mother?” asked Callum. “Shouldn’t I tell her where you are?”
She shook her head, and for a second, she looked much older than her age. “She can’t help me.”
There was a story there, Callum suspected, one with years of pain behind it. But he didn’t have time for her to tell it. Neither of them did. “I’ll get you help,” he told her. “I promise.”
When he left the room, closing the door on her felt like a small betrayal.
Walking out of the building, he tried to school his face into a casual expression even as his insides turned to jelly. He half-expected that his father had told his security team not to allow him to leave. But apparently his father had extended at least a little trust to him, because the guard outside the door only gave him a nod of recognition, and the one at the gate just waved as he opened the gate for him and let him drive away.
The streets were nearly empty at this time of night. Normally Callum kept to the speed limit religiously—why risk an accident for something as pointless as wanting to drive a little faster? But not tonight. He expected that if he glanced at his speedometer, it would probably show him going at least double the limit as he tore along the streets. He didn’t bother looking. Whenever he came up on another car, he sped around them, his mind fixed on one thing—the address that Leila had given him.
It took him less than twenty minutes to reach the house, but it felt like years. Almost before the car had stopped, he dove out the door and raced up the front walk.
He knocked on the door. No response. As he waited, his heartbeat counted out the seconds, reminding him how little time Leila might have left.
Whoever was inside might be asleep. It was long past bedtime for ordinary people, after all. A light was on inside, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He banged on the door more insistently, loud enough—hopefully—to wake them up.
No response.
If Leila’s father wasn’t home… if Leila had misremembered the address… he didn’t know what he was going to do. It wasn’t as if going to the police was an option. And if he tried to get Leila out himself, his father would probably piss himself laughing at his attempt, right before he put him on the earliest flight to London.
He knocked a third time, throwing all his desperation into the attempt. And this time, the door swung open.
The man in front of him didn’t say anything. He stood still as a statue as he looked Callum over—probably trying to figure out why this crazy person was knocking on his door in the middle of the night. The man certainly didn’t look like he had been asleep, though. He was still wearing day clothes, and his blonde hair was neatly combed back. Callum recognized the hair as Leila’s, along with the full lips and the jaw that came to a sharp point. There was no doubt that this man was the girl’s father. But while the girl’s face had been ordinary, on this man those same features had been transformed into… something else. Something that made his breath catch in his throat. Something that made his fists clench as he tried to fight down feelings he wasn’t supposed to have. The man’s face was crisscrossed with a network of white scars, but that only made his features more striking.
Callum forced himself to focus on the reason he had come here.
“I know where your daughter is,” he said, still out of breath from his desperate flight here. “And she needs you to save her.”
The man’s eyes sharpened, lighting up with hope, with fear, with something dangerous that Callum couldn’t name. “What do you know about my daughter?”
Callum looked over his shoulder, almost expecting to see one of his father’s people pull into the driveway behind him. The street was empty. Of course they hadn’t found him, not yet. His father probably didn’t even know that he was gone yet. But it was only a matter of time.
“She’s being held in a factory in the city.” He gave the man the address, then rattled off the code that would unlock the back door that led directly into the factory basement. “She’s fine for now, but you have to hurry.”
“Have you gone to the police?” The man’s voice wasn’t angry—in fact, he sounded remarkably calm. Even so, the force behind his words made it sound less like a question and more like a demand.
Callum shook his head. “It wouldn’t do any good. It’s the Syndicate. They have an arrangement with the police. They’ll go through the motions just enough to make it look like they’ve done their duty, and then they’ll decide there’s nothing worth investigating. I’ve see it happen before.”
“How do you know all this?”
Callum didn’t have time to answer this man’s questions. He had to leave before his father’s men found him. He had used his lifetime’s supply of bravery in coming here, and now he had to run. “Just save her,” he said, already turning back toward his car. “Please. She needs you.”
Before he could take more than a couple of steps, a strong hand caught his arm and pulled him back. “You’re not leaving until you tell me exactly what’s going on.” The man’s voice was still quiet, still steady, but Callum had no doubt that he could keep him from leaving and had no qualms about doing so. “And when I save her, you’re going to help me.”