Chapter 39: "Sam’s Risk" Julian POV

The alarm’s blaring loud in the locker room, red lights flashing on the walls, and Victor’s voice—“Found you”—cuts off sharp over the PA, leaving my heart pounding. Marcus is next to me, eyes wide, and Sam’s at the door, peering out, whispering, “He’s here—somewhere.” My hands are sweaty, still holding that photo of Marcus and Claire—“Betrayer” scrawled across it—and the chip etched with “$5K” is heavy in my pocket. My chest’s tight, and I’m thinking—Victor’s close, too close—and we’ve got to move, fast, before he pins us down.

Sam spins round, fast, pulling his laptop from his bag. “I can stop him,” he says, voice shaky but sure, and I frown, stepping closer. “What?” I say, loud over the alarm, and he’s already typing—fingers flying, screen glowing. “The PA—I’ll hack it, cut him off—buy us time.” My stomach twists—he’s a slot tech, good with machines, but this?—and I grab his shoulder, worried. “Sam, that’s mad—he’ll know it’s you.” He looks up, quick, glasses slipping, and nods. “Yeah, but you’re stuck, Jules—I’ve got this.”

I’m froze, watching him work—codes flashing, sweat on his forehead—and Marcus steps in, voice rough. “Hurry, mate—he’s coming.” The alarm’s shrill, drilling into my head, and I’m thinking—Claire’s plans, Victor’s gun from that bar—it’s all crashing in. Sam’s hunched over, muttering, “Almost there,” and I’m holding my breath—scared for him, scared for us. Then it happens—the PA crackles, loud, and goes dead—silence, sharp and sudden, cutting the alarm too. My heart jumps, and Sam grins, small but proud. “Got it—locked him out.”

I’m relieved—proper relieved—but it’s short, because Sam’s screen blinks—red warning, “Access Denied”—and he swears, low. “He’s onto me,” he says, slamming the laptop shut, and my stomach drops—Victor’s security, he knows the system, knows someone’s messing with it. “You’re locked out?” I say, voice tight, and he nods, fast, stuffing the laptop back. “Yeah—he’s tracing it—me.” My chest hurts—Sam’s in deep now, because of me—and I grab his arm, hard. “We’re out—now.”

We bolt—me dragging Sam, Marcus close behind—out the locker room, down the hall, my boots slipping on the tiles. My legs ache, bruised from the ambush, but I push—pushing Sam ahead, whispering, “You’re in too deep, mate.” He’s panting, glasses fogging, but keeps moving—loyal, steady—and I’m thinking—he’s risking it all, for me, when Marcus’s mess got us here. The casino’s dark, slots quiet this late, and I’m aiming for the staff exit—same one we snuck through—praying we make it before Victor’s men show.

We’re halfway—past the break room—when Sam stumbles, catching himself, and looks at me, grinning—small, goofy, even now. “You’re worth it, mate,” he says, voice soft, and my throat’s tight—caught off guard. I stop, just a second, staring at him—skinny, awkward Sam—and it’s a light, rare and warm, in all this dark. “Sam,” I say, quiet, “you don’t have to—” but he shakes his head, still grinning. “I do. You’re my mate—Marcus too. We’re in this.” My chest eases, just a bit—he’s solid, a friend when I need one—and I nod, fast, pulling him on.

Marcus is ahead, checking corners, and I’m thinking—three weeks ago, he kissed me, and now Sam’s here, sticking by me when Marcus’s lies tore us up. “Thanks,” I mutter, low, and Sam shrugs, like it’s nothing, but it’s everything—keeping me going when I’m cold on Marcus, scared of Claire. We hit the exit, door creaking as I shove it open, and the parking lot’s out there—cold, neon flickering—but I’m froze, hearing it—tires screeching, loud and close, cutting through the night.

My heart stops, and I turn—headlights flare, bright, a car swerving into the lot, fast. “Victor’s men,” Marcus yells, voice rough, and I’m pulling Sam back, shouting, “Run!”—but it’s too late. The car slams to a stop, doors flying open, and two blokes—big, mean—pile out, moving quick. My stomach drops, and I’m shoving Sam toward the shadows—“Go, mate!”—but they’re on us, fast. One grabs Sam, yanking him hard, and he yells, “Jules!”—panic loud in his voice.

I lunge—desperate, scared—grabbing at the bloke’s arm, but he’s strong, shoving me back. Sam’s fighting—kicking, swinging—but the other one’s got him, dragging him toward the car. “Run!” Sam shouts, voice cracking, and I’m stuck—froze, watching him thrash—my mate, caught because of me. Marcus pulls me, hard, yelling, “Jules, move!”—and my legs stumble, torn—wanting to save Sam, knowing I can’t. The blokes shove him in, doors slamming, and I’m yelling, “Sam!”—but the car peels out, tires screeching, disappearing into the dark.

I’m left standing, breath ragged, Marcus holding me back, and my chest’s heaving—Sam’s gone, grabbed, and it’s my fault. My hands rub my face, and I’m shook—his grin, “You’re worth it,” loud in my head, and now he’s with Victor’s men, paying for it. The lot’s quiet, just neon hum, and I’m thinking—Claire’s game, Victor’s shadow—it’s tightening, and I’m losing everyone—Marcus cold behind me, Sam taken—and I don’t know how to stop it.