A single bar of reception blinks on.
A text pings through.
Shay’s number.
He still has her phone.
My pulse spikes as I open it.
A pin drops onto the map app—coordinates.
And one line beneath it:
Come and get your girl.
We move on the cabin with quiet precision—no signals needed. We’ve done this a hundred times in other lives. Different terrain, different stakes. Same instincts.
Tex peels off east, eyes sweeping the tree line as he circles wide.
Tank flanks west, his boots nearly silent in the snow, checking for tracks, movement, threats.
Henry falls in behind me, covering the rear.
We don’t speak. We don’t have to.
This is muscle memory.
Formation without instruction.
Trust without hesitation.
I go straight up the center, watching windows, gauging angles, every breath measured, every step calculated.
But my heart hasn’t stopped doing that painful, uneven thing since Shay reached us. Since she sobbed Sadie’s name into Henry’s jacket. Since I found her note sitting on my damn kitchen table—a punch to the gut that hasn’t eased since.
I won’t lose her. Won’t lose someone I love. Not again.
The coordinates were dead-on. Whoever sent that text knew exactly where she was.
Which means one of two things.
Either someone on the inside is helping her…
Or we’re walking straight into a trap.
Doesn’t matter.
If this is a setup, they picked the wrong woman to use as bait. Because I’m not leaving without her.
Not now. Not ever.
I adjust my grip on the rifle.
She’s in there. I can feel it.
And if anyone touches her?—
God help them.
