"Show me the location," he says without waiting for any of us to say a word.
Vanir pulls up satellite imagery of the farm.
It's exactly what I expected—a main house, several outbuildings, all surrounded by empty fields and dense tree lines.
One road in, one road out.
Easy to defend.
Hard to approach without being seen.
"I think I know this place," Tor says quietly.
We all turn to look at him.
"Freya used to own a property near here. I heard it from the other kids. Different name, different shell company, but the same area." His jaw tightens. "She called it the farm. It's where she... processed the girls. Before moving them to buyers."
The word "processed" hangs in the air, ugly and heavy.
I don't want to think about what that means.
Don't want to imagine Dalla in a place like that.
"The layout will be similar to what Freya used," Tor continues. "Main house for living quarters. Barn or outbuilding for holding people. Usually a basement or underground space for the recordings—harder to hear screaming."
Runes' hands curl into fists. "My daughter is in there."
"I know." Tor's voice is steady, but I can see the pain in his eyes. This is hitting close to home for him too—the legacy of Freya, the things she made him do when he was young. "That's why I'm going to help you get her out."
"The approach is the problem," Vanir says, studying the satellite image. "Open fields on all sides. They'll see us coming from a mile away."
"Not if we come at night," I say.
"It's barely two o'clock. We'd have to wait hours—" Tor says.
"I'm not waiting." The words come out hard as iron. "Every minute she's in there is a minute too long. We go now."
"RJ—" Runes starts.
"You can wait if you want. I'm going." I meet his eyes, and whatever he sees there makes him pause. "That woman has your daughter. She has the woman I love. And I will burn that farm to the ground and everyone in it to get her back. With or without your help."
Silence stretches between us.
I know I'm being reckless.
Know that a daylight assault on a fortified position is tactically stupid.
Every training manual, every instructor I've ever had, would tell me to wait.
Gather more intel. Plan a night approach. Minimize risk.
But I can't think about tactics right now.
Can't think about anything except Dalla, unconscious, bleeding, in the hands of a monster.
Can't think about the baby—our baby—and what stress like this might do to a pregnancy.
If I wait until nightfall, she could be dead.
