Page 160 of What He Keeps

“Maggie,” I whisper, the name more vow than prayer.

Luka hears me but says nothing.

The road opens ahead into a long industrial stretch with low buildings, chain-link fences, and empty lots patched with weeds. The van accelerates. Luka matches it, closing the distance one car length at a time. Another black vehicle appears behind us, then a second.

Ours. Roman’s men.

My phone vibrates with a message from Sasha. A map appears on the screen with red markers moving toward the southern exits. Roman is blocking routes before Isabella reaches them.

The van swerves again, the motion far rougher this time. The driver overcorrects, nearly clipping the guardrail before wrenching the vehicle back into the lane. Maggie is still fighting. She hasn’t stopped.

“She’s alive,” I breathe.

Luka’s jaw sets. “Yes.”

“She’s fighting.”

The van jerks right, clips a curb, and bounces back into the lane. One of the back doors flies open before a man yanks it shut from inside. I see a flash of blue fabric. Brown hair. A woman’s arm.

My vision tunnels.

“There,” I growl.

Luka hits the gas, and we close fast.

The road ahead bends toward an overpass. Beyond it, one of Roman’s vehicles slides across the intersection, blocking the lane. Another black SUV cuts in from the opposite side, trapping the van between our pursuit and the barricade forming ahead.

The van driver sees it too late. Brake lights flare. The vehicle swerves toward a side road.

Luka anticipates the move and cuts the wheel first, angling our SUV to block the escape. Metal screams as our front bumper clips the van’s rear corner. The impact throws us sideways, but Luka holds the wheel with both hands and drives through it.

The van spins.

For one endless breath, I see only dark metal, blown tires, and Maggie somewhere inside that box of steel.

Then the van slams into the concrete base of the overpass. The impact tears through the air.

Luka brakes hard, and our SUV skids to a stop yards away. I’m out before the vehicle fully rocks back on its suspension. Guns rise around me. Men shout. Another escort vehicle crashes into Roman’s roadblock behind us.

None of it matters. I run toward the van. “Maggie!”

I reach the van seconds before Luka.

The front end has folded around the concrete support beneath the overpass. Steam pours from beneath the crushed hood while smoke curls into the late afternoon sky. One rear door hangs crooked on twisted hinges. The air reeks of gasoline, burned rubber, and hot metal.

Gunfire erupts behind me as Roman's men engage Isabella's escorts. I never glance back.

“Maggie!” I roar again as I wrench the damaged door wider.

One kidnapper lies sprawled across the bench seat, blood soaking his shirt. Another groans near the floor, pinned beneath warped metal and shattered plastic.

Neither of them is Maggie. My heart slams against my ribs.

Then I see her.

She lies half curled against the opposite wall of the van, tangled in broken restraints and debris. Blood streaks one temple. Her hair has come loose completely, obscuring part of her face.

“Maggie.”