I should have known better. There’s no such thing.
My phone rings.
Luc Batiste.
Odd.
He should still be in New Jersey, drowning in meetings and threatening senators with that signature calm menace of his.
This is not his cell. It’s a SAT phone. Immediately, I understand that this call means something catastrophic.
I answer instantly.
“Mr. Batiste,” I say as I stride away from the helipad.
I just sent a courier via helicopter with classified documents to the General’s location. More money, more promises to get things moving again.
A small fee. A minor hiccup. In the long run, this will all be worth it.
My boots hit the deck hard, “Yes? What is it?”
Chaos bleeds through the line—shouts, engines revving, men prepping for a fight.
And then his voice.
Cold. Stripped down.
A man holding panic together with raw fury.
“Where the fuck are you?”
My entire body freezes.
“What?”
“They took her,” he snarls. “She’s gone.”
For a split second, I don’t understand the words.
Then I do.
And my heart stops beating.
“What the fuck,” I grind out, voice already feral, “did you just say?”
“My wife was on the phone with her when they grabbed Cece, you fuck! They took my daughter!”
The world goes silent.
Not quiet.
Silent.
Like God flipped a switch and cut the sound from reality.
Everything inside me breaks in one violent, catastrophic instant.
I don’t breathe.
