Sold to the Fugitives by My Boyfriend for a Promotion

I stared at the photo of the third victim on my laptop screen, my fingers drumming restlessly against the desk. The Dark Web Killer case had been dragging on for six months—three victims, zero leads. My first real dead end since joining the Bureau.

"Ella!"

My office door flew open as Ryan burst in, practically vibrating with excitement. My boyfriend and LA County's Assistant District Attorney—the guy who usually walked around like he had a stick up his ass—looked like he'd just hit the jackpot.

"What's got you so wound up?" I closed my laptop. "Did the Italian place finally get your order right?"

"Better." Ryan planted his hands on my desk, leaning forward. "My CI just came through. We found where those three escapees are holed up."

My pulse jumped. Marcus, Tony, and Jake—three violent felons who'd busted out of state prison last month. The FBI and LAPD had been chasing ghosts for four weeks straight.

"Where?"

"East Side industrial district, Warehouse 7." Ryan dropped his voice like we were planning a heist. "Source says they're meeting there tonight for a weapons buy. We've got maybe two hours before they're gone."

I reached for my phone to call it in, but Ryan's hand shot out to stop me.

"Wait." Something urgent flickered across his face. "Ella, this is it."

"This is what?"

"Our shot." His grip tightened on my wrist. "Think about it—the FBI's youngest profiler and the county's rising star ADA bringing down three fugitives. The media would eat it up."

I pulled my hand back, studying his face. "Ryan, this isn't some publicity stunt. These guys are dangerous. We need SWAT."

"There's no time." His tone went flat, final. "SWAT approval takes at least an hour. They'll be long gone by then."

I hesitated. He wasn't wrong—the Bureau's red tape could choke a horse. But every instinct I had was screaming danger.

Ryan must have seen me wavering because he stepped closer, framing my face with his hands. Those green eyes went soft, the way they did when he wanted something. "Ella, trust me. I won't let anything happen to you. We'll just scope it out, confirm they're there, then call for backup. Besides..." He paused, thumb stroking my cheek. "If this pans out, we're both looking at serious promotions. We could finally afford that place in Malibu you've been eyeing."

The oceanview condo. We'd spent last weekend walking through it, talking about our future, making plans.

I looked into those earnest eyes and felt my resolve crumble.

"Fine. But recon only."

"Of course." Ryan smiled, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "I promise."

We took Ryan's black Audi, leaving at 4 PM with the LA sun still beating down mercilessly.

"Nervous?" he asked.

"Should I be?" I watched the city blur past my window.

"Not with me watching your back."

Sweet words, but his palm was slick with sweat. I figured it was normal—prosecutors didn't usually play in the field.

Thirty minutes out, the scenery turned to shit. Abandoned factories, rusted chain-link, windows like broken teeth.

"Thirsty?" Ryan suddenly produced an iced coffee from the console. "Iced Americano, just how you like it."

I blinked. Sure, I lived on iced coffee, but Ryan usually gave me grief about my caffeine addiction.

"Thanks." I took a sip. It tasted normal—actually better than usual. Maybe he'd added caramel.

"Ella," Ryan said quietly, "whatever happens tonight, I need you to know I love you."

I turned to study his profile, sharp against the light. My heart did that stupid flutter thing it always did when he got sentimental.

"I love you too."

We parked about two hundred yards from Warehouse 7—close enough to move fast, far enough to avoid detection.

The warehouse looked like it was held together by rust and prayer. The silence was absolute—no homeless camps, no stray cats, nothing.

Too quiet.

"I'll take point," I said. "You stay back and watch for trouble."

"No way." Ryan shook his head. "We split up, cover more ground. I'll take the first floor, you take the second. Radio if you find anything."

I didn't like it, but he insisted it was more efficient. Against my better judgment, I agreed.

The moment we stepped inside, the smell hit me—mold, rust, and something else I couldn't place.

"Watch yourself," Ryan said, his voice echoing in the emptiness.

I nodded, drew my weapon, and headed for the metal stairs leading up. Each step was calculated, quiet.

Halfway up, I glanced back. Ryan stood in the shadows below, watching me with an expression I couldn't read. Not worry, not fear, but something that looked almost like... satisfaction?

Before I could process it, he melted back into the darkness.

The second floor was worse—pigeon shit everywhere, broken glass crunching underfoot. I cleared each room methodically, weapon ready.

Empty. All of them.

No fugitives, no weapons deal, no nothing.

My radio crackled: "Ella, first floor's clean. Intel must've been bad. Let's get out of here."

Relief flooded through me as I headed back toward the stairs. Then a massive crash shook the building.

I rushed to the stairwell and my blood turned to ice. The middle section of the stairs had been smashed by a steel beam, the twisted metal making descent impossible.

"Ryan?!" I shouted, my voice bouncing off the walls.

Silence.

Then I heard it—an engine turning over, tires squealing on asphalt.

He was leaving.

I stared at the entrance, watching the last rays of sunlight where his taillights had disappeared into the distance.

"Ryan, you bastard!" I screamed. "Get back here!"

Low laughter answered me.

I spun around to see three figures emerging from the shadows at the far end of the floor. Tattoos, scars, and dead eyes—Marcus, Tony, and Jake.

The faces from the wanted posters, now standing twenty feet away.

"Well, well. The FBI princess." Marcus, built like a linebacker, grinned with teeth like broken glass. "Your boyfriend said you were a 'present.' Gotta say, he delivered."

My world tilted.

A present?

"He also mentioned that if we 'took good care' of you, he'd make our legal troubles disappear," Tony added, the one with the knife scar bisecting his left cheek. "Smart man, that prosecutor of yours."

No.

This couldn't be happening.

But it all clicked into place—the convenient tip, insisting we go alone, splitting up, the sabotaged stairs, that ominous "I love you."

Ryan had orchestrated this from the beginning.

He hadn't used me as bait. He'd sold me.

"Listen carefully," I raised my Glock, hands steady despite the terror clawing at my chest. "I'm a federal agent. Get on the ground, hands behind your heads. Now."

All three laughed.

"One gun, three men," Jake said, the wiry one with dead shark eyes. "Even if you drop two of us, the third one's gonna reach you. You really think you're walking out of here?"

I backed up until my shoulders hit the wall.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

Stairs destroyed, Ryan gone, cell service nonexistent in this concrete tomb.

I was fucked.

And the man I'd loved for two years, the man I'd planned to marry, had gift-wrapped me for these animals.

What should I do?