The Target

The night was a heavy blanket of darkness, the moon barely a sliver in the sky, casting faint silver threads of light over the city. Pascal stood alongside Sasha, the abandoned building they had just left behind them, its haunting presence a reminder of the gravity of what lay ahead. The chill in the air mirrored the cold dread that gnawed at Pascal's insides, threatening to overwhelm him. He tugged his jacket tighter around himself, though it did little to warm him.

Sasha, as usual, was unfazed. Her sharp, calculating gaze moved constantly, sweeping the surrounding area with the precision of a trained predator. She was more than just calm—she seemed almost detached, her focus razor-sharp. Every move, every glance, had a purpose. Pascal marveled at how composed she was, though a part of him envied her unshakable confidence.

"Are you ready?" Sasha's voice was low, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

Pascal met her gaze, trying to suppress the panic rising in his throat. His stomach twisted into tight knots, and his heart raced wildly. He didn't feel ready. How could anyone be ready to kidnap a man?

But what choice did he have? Pascal had been reckless all his life, throwing his father's money around like confetti at a party, never once stopping to think about the consequences of his actions. Now, the consequences had come crashing down in the form of financial ruin for Mendes Boomerang. His father's empire was crumbling under the weight of bad deals and looming debts, and Victor Kraus—the man Pascal was about to kidnap—was a key player in that downfall. The stakes couldn't be higher.

"I'm ready," Pascal forced the words out, though his voice lacked conviction.

Sasha didn't seem to notice his hesitation. She handed him a black hoodie and a mask, her movements brisk and efficient. "Put these on. We can't risk anyone seeing our faces."

Pascal accepted the clothing, his fingers trembling as he pulled the hoodie over his head and fastened the mask around his face. The mask was suffocating, the fabric pressing against his skin, making his breath come in shallow gasps. It felt like he was stepping into a role in some twisted, dark film—only this wasn't fiction. This was real, and there was no director to call "cut" if things spiraled out of control.

As they started walking, Sasha moved swiftly, leading him through the winding, dimly lit backstreets and narrow alleyways that connected the city like veins. The faint echo of their footsteps on the pavement was the only sound breaking the stillness of the night. Pascal's mind raced with a thousand thoughts, but one kept surfacing: How had he ended up here?

He'd met Sasha at a bar only days ago, thinking she was just another intriguing woman in a long line of flings. But Sasha was different. From the moment she approached him, there was something about her that set her apart—her intensity, her calm under pressure, the way she spoke like she knew far more than she let on. Now, he was neck-deep in a plan he couldn't have dreamt up in his wildest nightmares.

Victor Kraus. The name was as sharp as the man's reputation. He was ruthless, a titan in the world of finance. Pascal had heard his father speak of Kraus many times—always in tones of both admiration and fear. Kraus was the kind of man who could make or break fortunes with a snap of his fingers. And tonight, Pascal and Sasha were going to take him.

As they approached the upscale nightclub where Kraus was known to frequent, Sasha pulled Pascal into a shadowed alcove. They were close now, the entrance of the club just a few feet away. High-end cars lined the street, and a bouncer stood at the door, eyeing the few patrons who walked in and out. The club was exclusive—one of those places where power brokers and billionaires could disappear for a night without the prying eyes of the public.

Sasha glanced at her watch. "He'll be leaving soon," she said, her voice low. "We have to move fast. When he comes out, we'll cause a distraction. His security will be on high alert, but I've arranged for a getaway driver around the corner."

Pascal swallowed hard, his mouth dry. "What if something goes wrong?"

Sasha turned to him, her eyes locking with his. "Nothing will go wrong if you follow my lead. Stay calm, stick to the plan, and we'll be in and out before anyone knows what's happening."

Pascal nodded, though his nerves were screaming at him to run. Every muscle in his body tensed as he peered out from the shadows, watching the entrance of the club. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as they waited. The air was thick with tension, and Pascal felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the ground to give way beneath him.

After what felt like an eternity, the doors of the club swung open. A group of well-dressed men and women emerged, laughing and talking loudly as they made their way toward the waiting cars. Then, Pascal saw him.

Victor Kraus.

The man looked exactly as Pascal had imagined—tall, sharp-featured, with a commanding presence that made people instinctively step aside as he walked. He wore a tailored suit, his silver hair neatly combed, and his expression was one of casual arrogance. Kraus had two bodyguards flanking him, both of them large and imposing, their eyes scanning the surroundings with practiced vigilance.

Pascal's heart pounded in his chest as Sasha nudged him. "Now," she whispered.

Sasha moved first, stepping out from the shadows with a swift, confident grace. Pascal followed, his legs feeling like lead. His breath came in short, shallow bursts as they closed the distance between them and Kraus. Pascal could see every detail now—the glint of Kraus's watch, the cold steel of his eyes as he glanced around.

Suddenly, Sasha raised her hand and dropped a small metal object onto the pavement with a quiet clink. There was a brief pause, and then—

BOOM!

The sound wasn't deafening, but it was enough to cause confusion. A burst of smoke exploded from the object, filling the air around them in a thick, choking cloud. The bodyguards reacted instantly, shouting orders and reaching for their weapons as they tried to shield Kraus.

In the chaos, Pascal moved, just as Sasha had told him. His mind was blank, his body moving on instinct. He grabbed Kraus by the arm, yanking him toward the getaway car that had just screeched around the corner. Kraus struggled, his eyes wide with shock and fury, but Pascal held on tight, his adrenaline spiking.

"Get in!" Sasha yelled as she opened the door of the car.

Pascal shoved Kraus inside, climbing in after him. The bodyguards were still lost in the smoke, shouting and coughing as they tried to regain control of the situation. Within seconds, the car peeled away from the curb, the tires screeching as they sped off into the night.

Pascal's heart was hammering in his chest, the reality of what they had just done crashing down on him like a tidal wave. He turned to look at Kraus, who was sitting across from him, his face a mask of cold fury.

"You have no idea what you've just done," Kraus hissed, his voice low and venomous.

Pascal didn't respond. He couldn't. His mind was spinning, his pulse racing as he tried to process the enormity of what had just happened.

Sasha, sitting in the front seat, glanced back at him, her expression unreadable. "This is just the beginning," she said quietly.

Pascal wasn't sure if her words were meant to comfort him or warn him, but one thing was clear: there was no going back now.

The plan had worked—but the real danger was only just beginning.