Quinn's Ransom
Chapter 2: Across the Atlantic
The flicker of the television screen reflected in the darkened room, casting a pale glow across the man's cold face. He sat slumped in a worn leather chair, his hands clasped tightly together as he watched the news report unfold.
The anchor's voice echoed through the silence: *"In a desperate turn of events, Noah Puckerman, the boyfriend of Quinn Fabray, has made a bold move. Instead of meeting the ransom demand of thirty million dollars, Puckerman has offered the entire amount as a reward for information leading to the capture of those responsible for the abduction of his girlfriend."
The man's lips twisted into a mocking smile. He could hear the fury in Puckerman's voice, the raw desperation lacing each word. It was a familiar sound, one that would eventually unravel the man's enemies—but not today. Not yet.
The camera cut to a grainy image of Noah's face, still seething with anger and resolve. He stood before a backdrop of reporters, his jaw clenched as he prepared to make his statement. The air around him was thick with tension, his eyes burning with the intensity of a man who had lost everything. His voice, though strained, cut through the noise of the crowd, clear and powerful.
"Four days ago, my girlfriend, Quinn Fabray, was kidnapped. This money is her ransom," he announced, his voice steady despite the fury burning within him. His hands shook, but he didn't flinch. "But her kidnappers will never see a single dollar. Instead, I'm offering this as a reward to anyone who finds her."
His eyes burned with fury as he stared directly into the camera, addressing the man who had taken her, as if he were standing right there in front of him. The words were meant for the kidnapper, but they held a promise for everyone watching.
"I told you—you have no idea who you're messing with. Now the whole world knows I'm putting a fifty-million-dollar bounty on your heads. I'm sure someone will turn you in."
He stormed off the stage, ignoring the frantic attempts of reporters to catch his attention, his face a mask of anger and pain. Behind him, the news anchor continued the broadcast, but Noah's words hung in the air, a haunting promise of retribution.
As the camera cut back to the footage of Quinn's smiling face before her abduction, the kidnapper turned his attention back to the television. The mocking grin that had once spread across his face now faded into something darker. Noah Puckerman's challenge was clear. And while the man had no intention of backing down, he could feel the weight of Noah's words press against him.
Outside, the private jet's engines roared to life, the noise muffling Quinn's quiet sobs as she was forced into the cramped interior. She had no idea where she was going, but she knew this wasn't the end. It couldn't be.
As the plane taxied down the runway, Quinn's mind raced. She remembered Noah's words, the promise he had made to her, even when she couldn't be sure she'd ever hear his voice again. "I'll find you."
Noah wasn't done yet. She would survive this. She had to.
And soon, so would he.
Meanwhile, Noah's rage simmered, but the news was all he needed to fuel his next move. His phone rang as he walked into the airport, the final confirmation of Quinn's location flashing on the screen: She's already on her way to Germany.
With fire in his eyes and a machete in his hand, Noah didn't hesitate. He had one mission now: find Quinn before she was lost to him forever.
GLEE
The room was freezing.
Quinn's skin prickled against the chill of the cement floor beneath her bare feet. Her shoulders ached from the rough rope that bound her wrists tightly behind her back. The blindfold was damp with sweat, pressing against her eyes, suffocating her world into complete blackness. She could hear the low hum of voices outside the door, distant at first—muffled German, sharp and fast, as if the men were arguing.
Her breath hitched.
They'd stripped her down to nothing but her underwear, and she could feel every movement of air in the room brush against her exposed, bruised skin. Every minute stretched into hours. Her stomach grumbled, but fear drowned out the hunger. What mattered now wasn't food. It was survival.
The door creaks open, and the men's voices spill into the room.
"Er ist ein Idiot!" one of them shouted. *He's an idiot.*
"Du riskierst alles!" another barked back. *You're risking everything!*
Their boots clomped across the concrete, circling. Quinn's muscles tensed as one man stepped close—she could feel his heat, smell the stale tobacco and sweat clinging to his clothes.
Then, suddenly, one of them snapped in English.
"He killed my brother, Andre!"
Quinn froze.
The room went still for a second before another voice responded, calm and venomous, soaked in power like oil waiting for a match.
"And that's why we have her, Bruno."
She knew that voice. It was the same one that had whispered in her ear four days ago, just before the chloroform took her under.
His boots echoed closer. She didn't have to see him to know he was inches away. She could feel his breath—hot and slow—on her cheek.
Then, a hand reached out and *petted* her.
Fingers dragged gently over her scalp—where her long golden hair had once been. Where they had shaved her. Humiliated her. Reduced her to a pawn.
"She's pretty even like this," he murmured, almost affectionately, his voice brushing over her like a dirty wind.
Quinn whimpered, biting her lip to keep it quiet. She wouldn't scream. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
He leaned in closer. "He wants to play..."
He dragged his fingers down her jaw, slow and deliberate, until his thumb pressed beneath her chin, tilting her head up despite the blindfold.
"Then let the games begin."
And with that, he let her go, the air growing cold again as his footsteps retreated. The door slammed shut.
Outside, the voices began again—faster now, more agitated. In the chaos of their argument, Quinn sat in silence, her heart hammering against her ribcage like a war drum.
She had no idea where she was. No idea what they were planning. But she knew one thing for certain:
If Noah was on that broadcast…
If he had been on the news…
Then he was coming.
And hell was coming with him.
GLEE
Berlin's sky was painted with bruised clouds, and Noah Puckerman moved like a storm beneath them.
He didn't wait for official help. He didn't care about red tape or diplomatic delays. The second his boots hit the ground, he was gone—out of the airport, past the cars, into the streets with only one phrase locked and loaded.
"Wo ist sie?"
Where is she?
The words cracked through the air with every door he kicked down, every man he slammed against a wall. His fists were raw, knuckles split and bleeding. Quinn's picture—creased and smudged from his grip—was shoved into the faces of gangsters, lowlifes, and shadows who thought they knew fear. Until now.
Noah didn't need a badge. His fury was louder than a siren.
"Wo ist sie?!" he roared again, a gun pressed under a man's jaw, the photo of Quinn trembling in his left hand. "Talk. Or I'll make you wish you had."
There was blood on his jacket. Sweat in his eyes. But he never slowed.
Behind him, the local authorities followed like smoke behind fire. They warned him—he didn't care. They threatened to pull him out—he dared them to try. Every hour that passed was one Quinn spent in hell.
And he wasn't about to let that go unpunished.
GLEE
One hour before Noah found the right place…
The room smelled like damp cement and gasoline. Quinn lay curled on her side on a stained mattress, her body a map of bruises. Her blindfold was gone now, but that didn't make her feel any less trapped. Every shadow looked like death in waiting.
That was when the door flew open.
"Er kommt!" Bruno shouted, his voice cracking. "He's coming!"
Quinn's stomach turned. Her heart nearly stopped.
"What do you mean he's coming?" one of the other men barked. "They said he was still in Munich!"
"I don't care what they said!" Bruno's face was wild with panic. "He found Dietrich. Broke both his legs and set fire to his car with him still in it. He's tearing through every one of our contacts. He's going to find this place."
Viktor's jaw tightened as he grabbed a burner phone and snapped it in half. "Move her. Now."
Two men yanked Quinn up roughly and dragged her to her feet. She whimpered but didn't cry out—she wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
Her legs were too weak to walk, so they carried her, flinging her into the back of a black SUV like luggage. The wheels squealed as they sped out of the garage, tires cutting through the mist like razors.
She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the rearview mirror—pale, battered, bald.
But in her eyes?
Fire.
Chapter 3 will be up soon.