Chapter 3 3

The banging started at dawn. It wasn't a knock; it was a battering ram. The entire apartment frame shook with the force of it.

Dylan woke with a gasp, her hand instantly closing around the box cutter under her pillow. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

Tara's voice drifted from the living room, high-pitched and sickeningly sweet. Jax! Cousin Jax! You're early!

Heavy boots stomped on the floorboards. The smell of stale cigarette smoke and cheap cologne seeped under Dylan's door before the man even appeared.

Where is she? a voice growled. It sounded like gravel in a blender.

In there, Tara said. She's hiding. She says she doesn't have the money.

The doorknob to Dylan's room rattled violently. Then, a heavy boot kicked the wood right next to the lock. The cheap pine splintered. The door flew open, banging against the wall.

Jax Kowalski filled the doorway. He was massive, wearing a tight leather jacket that strained against his shoulders and a thick gold chain that nestled in his chest hair. His eyes were bloodshot.

Well, look at this, Jax sneered, stepping into the room. The Princess of Park Avenue.

Dylan scrambled backward on the bed, pressing her spine against the cold wall. She held the box cutter up, her thumb on the slider, extending the blade with a sharp click.

Get out, she warned, her voice trembling but loud. This is breaking and entering.

Jax laughed. He looked at the blade like it was a toothpick. You gonna cut me, sweetheart? With that?

He moved fast for a big man. He lunged forward, grabbing Dylan's wrist before she could slash. He squeezed, his grip crushing the delicate bones.

Dylan cried out, the box cutter falling from her numb fingers to the mattress.

Jax backhanded her.

The slap was thunderous. Dylan's head snapped to the side, her cheekbone colliding with the wall. Stars exploded in her vision. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears.

She slumped onto the mattress, dazed. Jax grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head back, forcing her to look at him.

You owe me two months' rent plus interest, he spat, his face inches from hers. You don't have cash? Fine. You can work it off at the club. I got customers who pay extra for a girl with a pedigree.

Tara stood in the doorway, her arms crossed. She looked nervous now, biting her lip. Jax, maybe just take her jewelry...

Shut up, Tara! Jax roared.

He let go of Dylan's hair to unbuckle his belt.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through Dylan's concussion. She kicked out, her heel connecting with Jax's knee. He grunted and stumbled back a step.

Dylan rolled off the bed and scrambled toward the bathroom.

Get back here! Jax yelled.

She threw herself into the tiny bathroom and slammed the door, turning the lock just as Jax's body slammed against it from the other side. The wood groaned.

Dylan backed away, hyperventilating. She looked around. No window. No exit. Just a toilet, a sink, and a hamper full of dirty clothes.

The door shuddered under another blow. Open up, bitch! Or I'll break your legs!

She dug frantically into the hamper, tossing clothes aside until her fingers brushed cold metal. Her backup phone. It was an old iPhone 6 with a cracked screen, no SIM card, only Wi-Fi.

She turned it on. The battery was at 8%.

She tried to text Sloane, her best friend, but the message failed. No signal in the bathroom. The Wi-Fi bar flickered-one bar, then nothing.

Boom. The door hinge buckled.

Dylan's hands shook so hard she almost dropped the phone. She opened Twitter. It was the only app that seemed to load on the spotty connection.

She didn't have Garland's number. She didn't have Javion's. She had nothing.

She typed furiously, her thumbs slipping on the glass.

@BrennanGroup SOS. 442 Knickerbocker Ave, Apt 4B. Hostage situation. Your competitor, Vanguard Consolidated, will love this story. Help.

She hit send. The loading circle spun. Round and round.

Please, she whispered. Please.

The circle stopped. Sent.

In the boardroom of Brennan Media, forty floors above Manhattan, a projector displayed quarterly earnings. Garland sat at the head of the table, his face unreadable.

His assistant, Carter, walked into the room. Carter never interrupted meetings. He walked straight to Garland and placed a tablet on the table.

The AI sentiment analysis flagged this, sir. High priority. It mentions Vanguard.

Garland looked down. He saw the tweet. He saw the address. He saw the name of his chief rival.

His face didn't change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. This wasn't a damsel in distress. This was a potential information leak. A liability he was monitoring was about to become a public spectacle linked to his biggest corporate enemy. He stood up abruptly. The chair scraped loudly against the floor.

Meeting adjourned, Garland said.

But sir, the merger- a board member protested.

Garland ignored him. He looked at Carter.

"Get our private security contractor on the line. I want a team on-site in five minutes. This is an asset containment issue. No sirens, no police. Handle it quietly. And get me a live feed from the surveillance team outside."