Chapter 8

Keegan stood his ground, his body radiating a cold, dangerous calm. "Let her go."

"Sure," the scar-faced man sneered. "But first, a payment. For the seven years my brother rotted in jail because of you. For the business you destroyed."

"Name your price," Keegan said, his voice even.

The man laughed. "I don' t want your money. I want your company. All of it. The core data for your new project. I hear it' s worth billions."

Haven, watching from the shadows of a nearby building, felt her blood run cold. Project Chimera. It was Keegan' s life' s work, the culmination of seven years of relentless effort. It was the future of his company. Giving it up would be professional suicide. No one would make that trade.

"Fine," Keegan said without a moment' s hesitation.

The word hung in the air, heavy and unbelievable. Haven watched in stunned silence as Keegan made a call. Within twenty minutes, a nervous-looking assistant arrived with a hard drive. Keegan took it and tossed it to the kidnapper.

"Now let her go," Keegan said.

The man smiled, a cruel, triumphant smile. "Not yet." He gestured to a rusty knife on a nearby crate. "You humiliated my brother. I want to see you bleed. One cut for every year he was inside. Sixty cuts. If you do it, I' ll let her walk."

Cora screamed, her body dangling precariously over the edge of a loading bay that dropped into the dark, churning water below.

Haven knew what he would do. For Cora, he would do anything.

Keegan picked up the knife. He didn't flinch. He pressed the blade to his own arm and drew a long, deep line. Blood welled, bright red against his pale skin.

One.

Two.

Three.

He made the cuts with a grim, methodical precision, his face a mask of stone. The only sound in the warehouse was Cora' s terrified sobs and the slick, wet sound of the blade parting his skin.

Haven' s hand trembled as she pulled out her phone. Her fingers were numb, but she managed to dial 911.

"There' s a hostage situation," she said, her voice a low, steady whisper as she gave the address. "A man is being forced to harm himself. Please hurry."

By the time she looked up, blood was staining Keegan' s shirt, his arms a canvas of crimson lines. He was swaying on his feet, but his hand was steady. He was on the fifty-eighth cut when she made the call. He didn' t stop. Fifty-nine. Sixty.

He finished and dropped the knife. It clattered on the concrete floor. He looked at the kidnapper, his face pale and slick with sweat.

"Satisfied?" he rasped.