I glance at the papers in her lap, at the signature lines, at the amount. Four hundred thousand dollars. Both signatures are required. Three hours until pickup after she signs. Ramirez is waiting for his prize.
The pieces are clicking together in my head, forming a picture she's not going to want to see.
Tyler Brooks isn't being held in a separate location, getting interrogated.
Tyler Brooks is making a deal.
But I can't tell her that. Not yet. Not without proof. Not while she's in shock and bleeding and still believing her brother is a victim like her.
"Priority is keeping you alive." I keep my voice flat, tactical. "Then we figure out your brother."
She stares at the blood-stained papers in her hands, and I can see her trying to make sense of it all, trying to force the pieces to fit the story she needs to be true.
I drive into the darkness, checking mirrors every few seconds, already planning our next move.
She thinks she's holding evidence that will save her brother.
She doesn't know she's holding proof he sold her.
THREE
MAGGIE
I'm watchinghim drive like I'm cataloging threats on a battlefield.
Military bearing—that much is evident from the way he holds himself, spine straight even when relaxed, eyes constantly scanning the mirrors with the kind of discipline that comes from training beaten so deep it's reflexive.
His hands on the wheel are steady, scarred across the knuckles, and there's a tattoo peeking out from under his right sleeve that looks like coordinates.
"Guardian,"he said when I asked if he was Delta.
Not an answer, exactly—just a word, dropped like a challenge. I've heard of Guardian HRS in passing, some shadowy private outfit that handles the kind of jobs governments don't touch.
Mercenaries? Contractors? Ex-special forces playing hero for hire? Delta doesn't just go private sector without a reason. Either retired or burned out, and this man can't be more than mid-thirties. Too young for retirement. Which means something broke him badly enough that he left.
I glance at him sidelong, testing the waters. "Guardian. That's... private sector?"
The truck's interior smells like gun oil and desert dust, and my head is throbbing where they pistol-whipped me three days ago. The blood on my temple has dried crusty and tight, pulling when I move my face. I should clean it. Should assess for concussion—my pupils were equal and reactive when he checked them, but that doesn't mean I'm clear.
But I can't stop watching him, can't stop trying to figure out who this man is and why he came alone.
"Who are you?" The question comes out harder than I intend, but I'm done with people lying to me.
"Frost."
"That's a callsign, not a name."
His jaw ticks. The smallest movement, but I catch it. "You served."
It's not a question. Statement of fact, delivered flat.
"Army. Combat medic. Four years, two deployments. Afghanistan and Iraq." I shift in the seat, and the trust documents crinkle in my lap, blood-stained and wrinkled. "You?"
Long pause. The desert highway stretches empty ahead of us, nothing but darkness and the white line disappearing under the hood.
My assessment shifts, pieces clicking into place. "You’re former military. I’ve worked out that much. Special ops or Delta, I’m guessing."
He doesn't respond, but his knuckles tighten fractionally on the wheel.
