The asset was my sister, Clara.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“Is she in there, Adrian?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“We are going to find out right now,” he said.

He tapped the tablet screen, opening the live video link through his secure firewall.

The screen buffered for an agonizing second, then resolved into a grainy, low-light image.

The camera was angled downward from a high steel joist in the ceiling.

It showed a small, concrete room with no windows and a heavy metal door.

Clara was tied to a wooden chair in the center of the frame, her head slumped forward.

A heavy sob caught in my throat, and I pressed my hand over my mouth to quiet the sound.

“She’s breathing,” Adrian said, his hand resting firmly on my shoulder.

“Look at her chest, Emily. She’s alive.”

I nodded, tears stinging my eyes as I watched her shoulders rise and fall in the grainy feed.

Behind Clara, wooden shipping crates were stacked to the ceiling.

Each crate was stenciled with the bold, white logo of the Blackwood Syndicate.