006: Ghosts and Blueprints

ELARA'S POV

Irina Volkov knows monsters when she sees them.

She's spent eight years being owned by them, three years running from them, and now she sits across from two people who think they can fight them. It would be amusing if it wasn't so tragically naive.

The girl—Elara—has the desperate look Irina remembers from her own reflection years ago. That feverish determination that says she'll walk through fire to save someone she loves. Irina had that look once, when she still believed her younger brother could be saved.

He couldn't. The Syndicate doesn't let go of what it takes.

And the man—Cain Harlow. Now he's interesting. Irina has heard the rumors, of course. The billionaire who isn't quite legitimate, who has connections to every criminal organization in the Eastern seaboard, who makes people disappear. She's heard other whispers too—that he's the one who helped her escape three years ago, though she never saw his face that night. Just a voice on the phone telling her exactly when the guards would change shifts, exactly where the emergency exit was, exactly how to vanish.

"The Golden Palace," Irina says, pulling a tablet from behind the bar. "I haven't thought about that place in three years. Tried very hard not to."

"But you remember," Cain says. It's not a question.

"You don't forget a place like that." Irina opens a file, and floor plans appear on the screen. "I drew these from memory six months after I escaped. Therapy homework—my doctor thought it would help to put it on paper. Make it less real somehow."

She slides the tablet across to them. Elara leans forward immediately, studying every line.

"The Palace is actually three penthouse floors connected by a private elevator," Irina begins. Her voice is clinical, detached. The only way she can talk about this without breaking. "Floor forty-eight is living quarters for the girls. Thirty-two rooms, each with biometric locks. Floor forty-nine is where clients are entertained—private suites, a main lounge, full bar, even a goddamn spa."

"And floor fifty?" Cain asks.

"Administration. Security headquarters, the owner's private office, holding cells for girls who need 'correction,' and the medical facility." Irina's jaw tightens. "They keep you healthy. Profitable merchandise doesn't die of infection or malnutrition."

Elara's face has gone pale, but she doesn't look away from the plans. "Where would Maya be?"

"Living quarters, most likely. After two years, if she's still there, she's considered reliable. They don't waste premium floor space on new acquisitions." Irina zooms in on the forty-eighth floor. "These rooms here—northeast corner—that's where they keep the top earners. Ocean views, nicer furnishings, the illusion of luxury."

"Illusion," Elara repeats.

"Because it's still a cage." Irina meets her eyes. "No matter how gilded. You understand that, right? Your sister is a prisoner. Has been for three years. The girl you remember? She's gone."

"I don't believe that."

"You should." Irina's voice is sharp. "I went in when I was eighteen. Came out at twenty-six. And the girl who went in? She died in there. I'm just what's left."

Cain's hand moves to cover Elara's, and Irina notes the gesture. Interesting. The ruthless businessman has a soft spot.

"Tell us about security," Cain says, redirecting. "How do we get in?"

Irina laughs, bitter. "You don't. That's the whole point. Biometric access at every entrance—fingerprint and retinal scan. Armed guards on rotation every four hours. Cameras in every hallway, every common area. The only place without surveillance is inside the individual rooms, and that's only because clients pay extra for privacy."

"So we go in as clients," Elara says immediately.

"No." Cain's voice is firm. "Absolutely not."

"Why not? Irina said it herself—clients have access—"

"Do you know what it costs to even get a meeting with the Palace's intake coordinator?" Irina interrupts. "Fifty thousand dollars. Just for the consultation. Membership is half a million annually. And that's before you pay for actual time with the girls."

Elara's face reflects the horror Irina feels every time she thinks about the economics of her own captivity.

"But that's our way in," Elara insists, turning to Cain. "You have that kind of money. You could pose as a client, get inside, find Maya—"

"And do what?" Cain's voice is cold. "Walk out with her while security watches? The moment we try to leave with an unauthorized person, we're dead. She's dead. Everyone's dead."

"Then what's your brilliant plan?"

"We don't have one yet." He looks at Irina. "What about staff? Cleaning crew, maintenance, anyone who has regular access?"

"All vetted extensively. Background checks, family leverage, the works. They don't hire anyone who might become a liability." Irina pulls up another document—staff schedules she memorized years ago. "Cleaning crew comes in twice a week, always supervised. Maintenance is on-call but never allowed on the forty-eighth floor alone. Medical staff lives on-site."

"So we create a problem that requires unsupervised maintenance," Cain muses.

"Like what? A fire? That triggers automatic lockdown. Girls get trapped in their rooms, security floods the floors, and you're caught before you reach the elevator."

"Not fire. Something technical. Air conditioning in the middle of a Dubai summer, water leak, electrical issue—"

"Still supervised." Irina shakes her head. "You're thinking like this is a normal building with normal security. It's not. It's a fortress designed specifically to keep people in and rescuers out."

Silence settles over them. Elara stares at the floor plans like if she looks hard enough, a solution will appear.

"You escaped," she says finally. "How?"

Irina freezes. She knew this question would come, has been dreading it since Cain called to set up this meeting.

"That was different," she says carefully.

"How?"

"I had help. Someone on the inside who—" She stops. "It doesn't matter. That person is gone now."

"Dead?" Cain asks.

"Worse. Disappeared. The Syndicate doesn't kill traitors quickly." Irina's hands are shaking. She presses them flat against the bar. "But I can tell you what I learned: you don't break into the Palace. You get invited in, or you don't get in at all."

"Then we get invited," Elara says with a determination that makes Irina want to weep for her innocence.

"You don't understand—"

"No, you don't understand." Elara's voice is fierce now. "That's my sister in there. My baby sister who I raised after our parents died, who I tucked into bed and helped with homework and promised I'd always keep safe. And I failed her. For three years, I failed her while she was—" Her voice cracks. "While she was in that place. So I don't care how impossible it is. We're getting her out."

Irina looks at Cain. "You're going to let her do this? Walk into the Palace like some kind of suicide mission?"

"I'm going to keep her alive," Cain says. "And yes, we're going to get Maya out. But we do it smart. We do it right." He turns to Elara. "Which means patience. Planning. Gathering more intelligence before we make a move."

"We don't have time for—"

"We make time." His voice is steel. "Because if we go in unprepared, we all die and Maya stays there forever. Is that what you want?"

Elara's shoulders slump. "No."

"Good." Cain looks back at Irina. "You said you had help escaping. Someone on the inside. What did they do? What made your escape possible?"

Irina closes her eyes, remembering. "They created a distraction during a client event. Something big enough that security focused on the main floors while I slipped out through a service entrance. And they disabled the biometric lock on one door for exactly ninety seconds." She opens her eyes. "That's all it took. Ninety seconds of opportunity, and I ran."

"Could we replicate that?"

"Not without someone on the inside. The locks are controlled from security headquarters. You'd need administrative access to override them."

"Or someone in security who's willing to help," Cain says thoughtfully.

"Good luck finding that. They vet security even more thoroughly than anyone else. We're talking ex-military, criminal backgrounds, people with nothing to lose and everything to gain from staying loyal."

"Everyone has a pressure point," Cain murmurs.

Irina studies him. "You're serious about this."

"Completely."

"You know you could die, right? You, your team, everyone involved. The Syndicate doesn't forgive interference."

"I've been interfering for ten years. I'm still here."

"Not in their flagship facility. Not in the Palace." Irina leans forward. "That place is different, Harlow. It's not a processing center you can raid with tactical teams. It's in the middle of Dubai Marina, surrounded by luxury hotels and wealthy tourists. You can't exactly storm in with guns blazing."

"Then we'll be subtle."

"There's no subtle way to extract a captive trafficking victim from a secure facility."

"Watch me."

The confidence in his voice is almost believable. Almost enough to make Irina hope, which is dangerous. Hope gets you killed in this world.

But when she looks at Elara—at the desperate love and determination in her eyes—Irina remembers what hope used to feel like. Back when she still believed her brother could be saved. Back when she thought escape was possible.

She was wrong about her brother. But she got out.

Maybe Elara can too. Maybe Maya can.

Maybe.

"I'll help you," Irina hears herself say. "Not on the ground—I can't go back there. But intelligence, planning, whatever you need that I can do from here."

"Why?" Elara asks. "You don't know us. This isn't your fight."

"It's always my fight." Irina's voice is rough. "Every girl in that place is my fight. I got out. They didn't. If there's a chance to free even one of them—" She stops, swallows hard. "Then I have to try."

Cain nods slowly. "Then we need everything you know. Client lists, security protocols, guard rotations, staff schedules, supplier deliveries—anything that might give us an opening."

"That's going to take time. My memory isn't perfect."

"We have time. A week, maybe two before we move." He stands. "I'll have my people reach out with secure communication channels. Everything digital, encrypted, no phones."

"Paranoid much?"

"The Syndicate has eyes everywhere. Including on my organization." His jaw tightens. "We have a leak. Someone who's been feeding information to Kozlov."

Irina's blood runs cold. "Then you're compromised."

"Only partially. I'm handling it." He offers his hand. "Thank you, Irina. For trusting us."

She takes it, his grip firm and warm. "Don't make me regret it. And Harlow?" She holds his gaze. "Keep her safe. Girls like Elara—the ones who still believe in saving people—they're rare. Don't let this world destroy her."

"I won't."

After they leave, Irina pours herself a drink she doesn't plan to finish and stares at the floor plans still displayed on her tablet. The Palace. Three years since she escaped, and just looking at those lines on a screen makes her hands shake.

She thinks about Maya Monroe. Twenty years old now, stolen at seventeen. Three years in that hell.

Irina was eighteen when they took her. Twenty-six when she escaped. Eight years.

If she'd had someone like Elara—someone who never stopped looking, who broke into buildings and made deals with dangerous men and refused to give up—would she have gotten out sooner?

She'll never know.

But Maya has that someone. Maya has a sister who won't stop fighting.

Irina pulls up her encrypted laptop and starts typing everything she remembers. Client names, security shifts, the layout of the medical facility, which guards were cruel and which were just indifferent. Every detail, no matter how small.

If Cain Harlow is really going to try this impossible thing, he'll need every advantage he can get.

And maybe—just maybe—this time the rescue will work.