Outside, a white van pulled up to the entrance and the men shoved her inside with rough, practiced efficiency.
And suddenly the entire situation clicked together inside Stan's mind with cold, brutal clarity.
She'd been drugged.
That explained the sweating. The collapsing legs. The sluggish movements. The fear.
She hadn't recoiled from Stan because he had done anything threatening.
She'd recoiled because she was terrified, half-incapacitated, and incapable of distinguishing between danger and safety anymore.
Stan turned sharply toward the street.
He didn't have time to retrieve the Huracán. The car was still at the service center, and even if it wasn't, following a kidnapping in a matte-black Lamborghini would be the exact opposite of subtle. It'll attract way too much attention.
The van had already begun pulling away.
Stan stepped to the curb and flagged down the nearest taxi.
The moment it stopped, he got in and pointed toward the departing vehicle.
