Chapter 1 The Kidnapping Game Begins
# Chapter 1: The Kidnapping Game Begins
My hands wouldn't stop trembling as I gripped the steering wheel. The plan had to work—it was simple enough. Cause a minor accident, offer help, drug him, and take him to the abandoned house on Willow Street. Four steps to save my brother's life.
"Juno, don't mess this up," I whispered to myself, checking my rearview mirror for the fifteenth time. The sleek black Aston Martin was exactly three cars behind me. Damien Holt, 28-year-old heir to the Holt Industries fortune, drove alone every Thursday evening after his private boxing sessions. Like clockwork.
I'd spent three weeks studying him: his routines, his habits, the way he walked with that infuriating confidence of someone who'd never known desperation. Until today.
The traffic light turned yellow. I slowed down, positioning my car perfectly. When it turned green, I accelerated, then suddenly braked, causing his car to bump lightly into mine. My heart hammered against my ribs as I checked the mirror again. He was getting out of his car.
Showtime.
I emerged from my vehicle, feigning distress, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear with shaking fingers—the trembling, at least, wasn't an act.
"I'm so sorry," I called out, my voice deliberately higher than usual. "I thought I saw something cross the road."
Damien Holt was taller in person than in the photographs I'd studied. His dark hair slightly tousled, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. But it was his eyes that caught me off guard—ice blue and unnervingly perceptive.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice deep and controlled as he assessed the minimal damage to our vehicles.
"Yes, I just..." I let my voice break slightly. "I'm a bit shaken. Would you mind if I sat down for a moment?"
He nodded, surprisingly gentle for someone Forbes had labeled "The Ruthless Prince of Wall Street." He helped me to the sidewalk, his hand briefly touching my elbow. I noticed the expensive watch on his wrist—probably worth more than everything I'd ever owned.
"I have water in my car," I offered. "Would you like some? It's the least I can do."
The skepticism that flashed across his face lasted only a second before he nodded. "Sure."
I retrieved two bottles from my car, turning my back to him as I carefully emptied the powder into one. The sedative would work within minutes.
"Here," I handed him the bottle, watching carefully as he took a sip. "I'm Juno, by the way."
"Damien," he replied, not bothering with his last name. I pretended not to know who he was.
We exchanged insurance information—mine fake, of course—while I watched for signs of the drug taking effect. Five minutes passed. Then ten. His speech remained clear, his movements precise.
"I think we can handle this without involving the companies," he said, checking his watch. "Minor damage. I'll have my guy fix both cars."
Panic rose in my throat. Why wasn't he getting drowsy?
"That's very generous," I said, forcing a smile. "Actually, I live just around the corner. Maybe we could discuss it over coffee? I feel terrible about this."
A slight smile played on his lips. "Coffee sounds good."
I led him to my car, surprised at how easily he agreed. Perhaps the drug was working after all, just slower than expected. We drove in silence for three minutes before he spoke again.
"You're not taking me to your place, are you, Juno?"
My blood froze. I kept my eyes on the road. "What do you mean?"
"Just an observation. We've passed two residential areas already."
I laughed, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "It's a shortcut. Traffic's bad on Main Street this time of day."
When we reached the abandoned house, I parked behind it, out of sight from the road. The property had been foreclosed months ago—perfect for temporary captivity.
"Interesting place you have," Damien remarked dryly as we walked toward the back door.
"It's a fixer-upper," I replied, unlocking the door with gloved hands. "After you."
He stepped inside, and I followed, closing the door behind us. The house was bare except for essential furniture I'd placed earlier—a table, two chairs, a mattress in what was once a bedroom.
"Would you like that coffee now?" I asked, moving toward the kitchen area where I'd hidden the syringe.
"I think we've moved beyond coffee, don't you?"
I turned, and my heart nearly stopped. He was standing there, completely alert, studying me with those penetrating eyes.
"The sedative," he said calmly. "Fast-acting, tasteless, but has a slightly bitter aftertaste if you know what to look for. You should have used something stronger."
My hand slipped into my pocket, fingers wrapping around the syringe. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you do, Juno Reyes."
My real name on his lips sent ice through my veins. How could he possibly—
"Surprised?" he asked, taking a step closer. "Don't be. Your performance was quite convincing. The trembling hands, the damsel in distress act. You've clearly done your homework."
In one fluid motion, I pulled out the syringe and lunged forward. He caught my wrist with surprising strength, twisting until I cried out in pain, the syringe clattering to the floor.
"That wasn't very nice," he said, his voice still maddeningly calm.
"Let me go!" I struggled against his grip.
"So you can try to drug me again? I don't think so." He kicked the syringe away. "Now, shall we discuss why you're trying to kidnap me, or should we skip to the part where I call the police?"
Desperation made me reckless. I brought my knee up hard, aiming for his groin. He anticipated the move, shifting his body, but I managed to break free. I darted toward the back door, but he was faster, blocking my exit.
"Who sent you?" he demanded, all pretense of civility gone.
"No one," I lied, backing away.
"Lie again, and this gets much worse for you."
I assessed my options. The front door was locked from the outside—part of my original plan to keep him contained. The windows were boarded up. I was trapped with a man who somehow knew my name and had been playing me from the beginning.
"My brother," I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper. "They have my brother."
Something shifted in his expression—not sympathy exactly, but recognition.
"Ah, the classic leverage. And who are 'they'?"
I shook my head. "I can't tell you. They'll kill him."
"They'll kill him anyway once they have me," Damien said matter-of-factly. "You know that, right?"
I'd been trying not to think about that possibility.
"I just need to deliver you and get the money," I insisted. "What happens after isn't my concern."
"It should be," he replied, "because I'm the only one who can help you both get out of this alive."
I laughed bitterly. "You expect me to believe you'd help after I tried to kidnap you?"
"I expect you to recognize when you're out of options."
He was right. I was out of options. But I still had one last trick. While he was talking, I'd been inching toward the table where I'd hidden a backup sedative—an autoinjector, easier to use than the syringe.
"Fine," I said, feigning defeat. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. Starting with who sent you."
I took another step toward the table. "A man named Vincent. He runs—"
In one swift movement, I grabbed the autoinjector and jabbed it into his thigh before he could react. His eyes widened in surprise as the sedative entered his system.
"You're... full of... surprises," he managed before his knees buckled.
I caught him before he hit the floor—no easy feat given his size—and dragged him to the chair I'd prepared with restraints. My hands were shaking again as I secured his wrists and ankles.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I wasn't sure if I meant it. "I need to save my brother."
With Damien unconscious, I took a moment to catch my breath. I had him. Step three complete. Now I just needed to make the ransom call and wait for instructions.
I pulled out his phone from his pocket, intending to use it for the ransom call—untraceable back to me. But it was locked, requiring facial recognition. I held it up to his face, and to my surprise, it unlocked.
What I saw next made my blood run cold.
On the screen was a dossier—my dossier. My photograph, my address, my work history, even my brother's name and location. And a date stamp from three weeks ago—the exact day I had begun tracking Damien.
He hadn't just recognized me today. He'd known who I was all along.