Mercer heads back to the lead vehicle. Colton guides us to the second SUV, which already has a child safety seat. Lucas climbs into the back seat, still clutching Ghost. I slide in beside him while Colton takes the passenger seat up front.
The convoy pulls away from the ranch, leaving behind the crime scene and the truck for Kane's allies to handle.
Lucas leans against me, exhausted. "Mom?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"Is Mr. Stryker going to keep us safe? Really safe this time?"
I look at Colton's profile in the front seat. Blood still streaks the back of his neck where he missed a spot washing up. Bandaging shows under his sleeve. He just killed people to protect us and nearly died doing it.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "I think he is."
Lucas's breathing evens out as sleep takes him. I hold him close and watch the desert blur past.
Colton's phone buzzes. He answers, listens, hangs up. His shoulders stay tense.
"What is it?" I ask.
He glances back. "Tommy detected a tracker on the truck. That's how they found us."
The words land heavy. "What?"
"Somehow the Committee planted it. They followed us from your house to the safe house." His jaw tightens. "I didn't think to sweep the vehicle before we left. I almost got you both killed."
The anger hits fast—rage and terror at how close we came. Lucas could have died because Colton didn't check. We could have died in that panic room.
But Lucas is breathing against my shoulder. Alive because Colton stood between him and the operatives that tracker brought to our door.
"Just get us there," I say quietly. "Get us somewhere safe."
He holds my gaze, then nods. "I will."
The convoy speeds toward Tucson. I watch the desert blur past the window—endless scrub and rock and sky that doesn't care about Committee operatives or tracked vehicles or six-year-old boys who saw the wrong thing at the wrong time.
Lucas's weight is solid against my side, his breathing deep and even. One hand still grips Ghost, the wolf's worn fur matted from years of being clutched during nightmares. The other hand rests on my arm, fingers curled loose in sleep.
He's so small. So breakable. The Committee sent multiple operatives to kill him because he can identify a man with a snake tattoo. Because he wandered off while I was distracted. Because I failed to protect him for two goddamn minutes.
They came with assault weapons and body armor and tactical coordination. Came to kill a six-year-old child to protect their operation. Came prepared to eliminate anyone standing in their way.
Colton stood in their way. He walked into that firefight alone and walked back out because letting them reach us wasn't an option.
Eight years ago, he walked away from whatever we were building because he couldn't handle being tied down. Now he's bleeding and bruised and coordinating extraction to histeam's base of operations because walking away isn't an option anymore.
People don't change like that. Not really. Not in fundamental ways.
But maybe they do when a child's life is on the line.
My throat tightens. I force myself to breathe through it.
The SUV hums beneath us, tires eating up miles of empty highway. In the front seat, Colton talks quietly into his phone—coordinates, logistics and tactical details I don't fully understand. Planning the next move. Always planning.
I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes, but that makes it worse. Behind my eyelids, I see the panic room. Hear the muffled gunfire. Feel Lucas trembling against me while I whispered lies about safety.
Eyes open. Better to watch the desert.
Buildings start appearing along the highway. Tucson spreading out in the distance, urban sprawl creeping into the empty landscape. We're getting close.
