Instead, I tilt my head slightly. Neutral. Non-confrontational. But my stance remains unmovable.
"This is unacceptable," he snaps, voice lowering slightly, his anger still there, but less directed at the girl behind me now. "I ordered these items a week ago. I received a confirmation email, and now, suddenly, my order doesn't exist?"
"We'll fix it," I tell him, nodding to the clerk at the register. "Run his name, see what's going on."
The clerk rushes to comply, tapping rapidly on the computer. The man grumbles, shifting on his feet, still itching for a reason to keep going.
"You guys need to learn how to run a business," he mutters, arms crossing. "Back in my day—"
I stop listening.
Because the situation feels wrong.
I've dealt with hundreds of these confrontations. I know how they go. This doesn't fit the pattern.
He's hostile, but not escalating. Pacing, but not storming out.
The girl behind the register looks up. "Sir," she says hesitantly, her brows furrowing. "I—I'm sorry, but there's no record under this name."
I tense.
The man freezes. I'm ready for him to explode again, but then suddenly he looks at his watch.
And then, his whole demeanor changes. Unnaturally fast.
"Oh," he says, casually—far too casually, like he wasn't just about to burst a blood vessel. "Well. Guess I'll look for my receipt at home. No harm done," he says, voice eerily light before he all but runs out of the store.
I feel my stomach drop.
This wasn't a real complaint. This wasn't about a missing order.
This was a distraction. For me.
Something else just happened. Something I wasn't supposed to see.
I whip out my phone.
The cameras.
I need the fucking cameras.
I pull up the VIP floor feed.
Izzy was just there. She was right there.
But now?
Now—
She's gone.
No.
No, no, no, no.
I take off at a dead sprint.
By the time I reach the VIP floor, I'm already barking orders through my headset for my guys to fan out.
"Where's Izzy?" I demand.
Daniel turns, startled.
"She—uh—she went to check the stock room for a size."
The stock room.
The closest stock room—the one the two guys we caught had been so fucking interested in.
No.
I shove past Daniel, running toward the back, my heartbeat pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. My mind keeps repeating a desperate mantra: Not her. Please, not her.
I burst into the stock room—
And it's empty.
No.
I yank my phone back out, rewind the footage, eyes scanning frantically.
I see it.
Izzy, walking into the stock room.
A few seconds later—
Two men follow her in.
She turns, confused. She says something I can't make out.
A bag over her head.
Her body jerks.
She fights. Kicking, thrashing—
One of them brings an elbow down hard into her ribs, and she crumples.
I watch them drag her limp body toward the rear of the store, where I already fucking know there's an exit. A service door to the loading dock.
I run.
Every fiber of my being is screaming.
I hit the service door so hard it slams open, and just as I step out—
I see it.
A white van, peeling out.
My hands shake.
Too late.
I was too fucking late.
They have her.
I sprint up the stairs to the security suite, heart pounding, hands already forming fists at my sides. I don't bother acknowledging the other guys as I storm in, heading straight for the locked armory.
Guns.
I need guns.
A lot of them.
I've got a fix on Izzy's GPS. The idiots who took her didn't check for a phone, which means they're amateurs. Stupid ones. And thank fucking God for that, because if they had even half a brain between them, I'd be in the dark right now.
I throw open the cabinet, grab a tactical rifle, two pistols, and extra magazines, shoving them into my bag with fast, practiced movements.
I'm halfway out the door when—
"Callahan!"
I nearly barrel into Amanda, who skids to a stop in front of me, her face tight with confusion and concern.
"What the hell is going on?" she demands. "I heard there was an issue with the VIP shoppers, but I can't find Izzy—"
I don't have time for this.
"She's been kidnapped."
Amanda's entire body goes still.
"What."
I push past her, sprinting toward the garage, but she grabs my arm, yanking me back with surprising strength.
"Cal, what the fuck do you mean she's been kidnapped?"
I glare at her, yanking my arm free. "I mean exactly that. And I'm going after her."
Amanda blinks at me, her expression shifting rapidly from shock to fury. "Then I'm coming with you."
"No, you are absolutely fucking not." I keep walking. "I don't have time to babysit."
She barks out a laugh, and before I can process what's happening, she reaches into her tiny designer purse and pulls out a pink fucking handgun.
I stop.
Blink.
"What the fuck?"
Her lips curve in that way that says, Oh, you have no idea.
"I've been taking care of myself for a very long time," she says, twirling the gun in her hand like it's an accessory. "I've got a past no one knows about. And if you don't take me willingly, I'll just follow you anyway."
I stare at her.
Of all the people in this goddamn store, Amanda was not who I'd expect to be pulling a weapon out of her fucking purse.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Fine. But Izzy comes first."
Amanda nods. "Obviously."
I shove an extra magazine into her hand. "Don't miss."
She winks. "I never do."
I don't have time to process that.
Instead, I grab my bag, haul ass to the parking garage, and throw everything into Izzy's car—because it's the closest. Amanda jumps into the passenger seat without hesitation.
I don't even glance at her as I start the engine, pull up the GPS coordinates, and floor it.
We're coming, Izzy.
Hold on.
I DON’T CRY OVER MONSTERS ANYMORE
IZZY
I wake up in a haze, my brain struggling to piece together where I am and how I got here. It's like swimming through thick fog, each thought fragmented and slippery. My head pounds with a dull, insistent ache that makes it hard to concentrate—like the worst hangover I've ever had, except I don't remember drinking.
My body feels impossibly heavy, limbs weighted down as if gravity has doubled overnight. Everything is... wrong. Not just unfamiliar, but deeply, fundamentally wrong, like I've stepped into someone else's nightmare. The air filling my lungs is stale and thick with dust. I taste it on my tongue—metallic and foreign.
Beneath me isn't the soft give of a mattress but cold, unyielding metal that leaches warmth from my body. My wrists throb where tight plastic zip ties cut into skin already raw and angry. The sound of my own breathing is too loud, echoing in my ears—shallow, rapid pants that betray the panic I'm trying desperately to suppress.
Where the hell am I?
I try to shift position, to find some relief from the hard floor, but my body protests with a sluggishness that sends fresh alarm coursing through me. My thoughts immediately dart to the worst possibility—did they drug me? I'm disoriented, yes, but not disconnected. I can feel every painful ache and sensation.