Blayze raced along the dark, circular corridor, furious that he hadn’t been warned about the exit change. “What’s happening, Roman?” he grumbled as he sped around the back loop of the stage.

Dim wall lights sped by on either side as he moved.

“I overheard someone telling Sophia the path was blocked. He said he was taking her to find you. Some secret passageway that was really an elevator.”

Blayze slowed as he came to a set of closed double doors. Frantically, he jostled each knob, but neither budged beneath his grip.

“Sophia?” he called, slamming the doors with his fist. “What do you hear now?” he asked Roman through the mouthpiece.

“A lot of squeaking. And rattling. I think they’re on the elevator he was talking about. Don’t have a visual.”

It’s fine, Blayze. She’s going to be fine. Yet, even as he assured himself that was the case, Blayze feared it wasn’t true. He reached out his phone and dialed her number before rearing back to kick the doors open. He was about to ram his foot against the weakest spot when the knob started to twist.

One ring sounded from the line as Blayze dropped his leg.

The door flung open. “Are you here with Ms. Vasco?” Jane asked.

“Yes,” Blayze breathed, “where is she?”

Second ring.

He recognized the interns before him, told himself he had nothing to panic over, but his instincts were screaming otherwise.

“They went to go find you,” Jane said.

Fourth ring.

“Where?” he pled.

“Down the secret lift. It’s just behind the curtain.”

Sophia’s voicemail picked up.

Blayze tucked the phone back into his pocket as he rushed past the interns and toward the thick, hanging fabric, vaguely aware that the last speaker of the night was still giving his speech. “Hey,” he asked over his shoulder as he moved back the curtain. “Who was she with?”

“Frank,” the two hollered behind him.

When Blayze opened the small door, a metal gate stood between him and the lift, which, he realized, was making a slow climb up back to the top. Rattles, clanks, and screeches marked its progress.

“Sophia?” He called down as he waited. “Roman, you there?”

“I’m here,” said Roman through the small device. “I made a call to the police station in case there’s been foul play. They’re sending a buddy of mine out to help investigate. As for the body cam, my eyes and ears are shot. But that sound I can hear in the background right now… that’s the last thing I caught on Sophia’s end. You’ve got to be right where she was a minute ago.”

Blayze nodded, willing himself to stay calm. The lift came into sight. He leaned over to take a closer look, realizing how painfully slow the old thing moved. He’d be waiting all day.

Instead, he gripped the waist-high gate, then hoisted himself up, over, and into the dark, empty space. He caught a long stretch of air before crashing onto the wobbly contraption floor.

With a quick survey, Blayze located the operating box and punched the round red stop button. He shoved a thumb into the down button next, waiting for the elevator to respond. At last it screeched to a stop, the thing rattling like a bear-jostled cage. With a whining groan, chains clattering, it began a jerky decline.

Frank and Victor. Frank and Victor. The two had to fit together. An image of Blayze’s notes came to mind. The picture Frank drew on his nametag.

“Hey, Roman,” Blayze said as an idea came to mind. “Dr. Frankenstein’s first name is Victor, isn’t it?”

“Uh…yeah, I believe it is,” Roman said.

A curse spilled through Blayze’s lips at the confirmation. Frank, aka Frankenstein, was Charles Locklear’s son. The young intern wasn’t trying to locate Blayze at all—he wanted to get Sophia all to himself, and somehow, he’d accomplished that very thing.

“I know who’s got her,” he said. “It’s Charles Locklear’s son, Victor.”

“What does he want with her?”

Blayze shook his head. “I don’t know yet.” He caught sight of an outdoor exit as he neared the base, a small green sign making it clear. “Southeast side of the building. Head there.”

“On our way.” Roman said.

Once the floor was close enough, Blayze hoisted himself over the edge and jumped once more, landing on the cement floor with a thud. The small cab continued its slow decline, nearing the exit, but Blayze reached for the knob and rushed out beneath it.

There were no cars parked on this side of the building. Only a pad of cement leading to a massive stretch of field grass broken up by pathways and stairs, each leading to a different part of the university. Though he’d rather run in any direction than stand in one place, Blayze forced himself to pause while he scoped out his surroundings. Each footstep in the wrong direction would cost him precious time.

The small whiny elevator came to a jolting stop behind him, causing Blayze to realize he still held the door open. He went to release it, glancing back as he did, and noticed something had been duct-taped to the inside of the door.

Blayze jerked an arm back, sneaking his fingers in the crack of the heavy door just before it closed. He pried it open, eyes widening as he saw what it was: A package – wrapped in red, white, and blue. Two words were printed on the card. Ring. Ring.

Just as he’d feared. They hoped to use Sophia for ransom. Blayze ripped the package off the door and tore into it, snatching the small phone he expected to find. A square of paper was stuck to the device.

See the row of utility sheds at the east end of the property. Theatre Department is where we’ll be. There’s a door in back. Knock. Bring a friend if you want Ms. Vasco to die.

The sun had set not long ago, leaving a twilight haze to loom over the land. Blayze spotted the sheds—tucked into an isolated gully on the grounds—and ran, adrenaline surging through him like acid.

“You there, Roman?”

“Haven’t found anything on our end,” Roman said. “What about you?”

“The sheds along the far east end of the property,” he breathed, his voice bouncing as he ran. “He’s only expecting me, and he doesn’t want any company. You’ve got just one guy with you, right?”

“Yep.”

“Stay hidden for now.”

“You got it,” Roman said.

Blayze tucked his chin and ran faster. You’ve been trained for this, Blayze. You’ve just got to get in this guy’s head. Victor Malor.

That’s who had Sophia right now. Boy, did Blayze miss Cannon in moments like these. He tried to repeat some of the words the man would utter when they faced the impossible on deployment. A choppy version cycled through his mind as he approached the row of industrial sheds.

Please God, please, give me the words. And give Sophia what she needs to stay safe.

A wide garage door centered the west-facing sides of each structure. On this side there were numbers to mark them. One through at least a dozen. Blayze darted between the two closest sheds—eight and nine, then attempted to read the names on the doors. It was darker on the east side of the sheds, but light enough to read the brown letters stenciled over the tan paint.

Football and Track. Band. Maintenance. Theatre Department.

Blayze stopped in his tracks and banged on the door. He checked the knob next, the stubborn thing rigid beneath his grip. “Sophia?” he hollered, desperate to hear the sound of her voice.

The phone rang, and Blayze brought it to his ear with a hand that felt detached from the rest of his body. “Frank?” he rasped.

“You made it.”