No name. No number. Just those three words in stark black text.
My stomach twists, and bile rises in my throat. I delete the message with shaking fingers and throw the phone onto the chair across the room. It lands with a soft thud against the cushion. I’m trying to breathe through the rising panic, each inhale tight and insufficient.
“Breathe,” I whisper to myself, my hands fisted in the sheets. “Just breathe.”
I move to stand. My body protests instantly, ribs pulling, thigh aching where the bruise has spread from hip to knee. The scar at my temple throbs in rhythm with my pulse, a dull ache that never quite fades. I grab the bedpost and steady myself, fingers gripping the smooth wood until my knuckles blanch.
Vega lifts his head, ears pricking forward, alert despite his injury.
“I'm okay,” I tell him, though we both know it's a lie. My voice wavers, and I clear my throat. “Really.”
The floor is cold against my bare feet, sending shivers up my calves. I take a slow step, then another, testing my balance. The ache spreads through my legs, muscles and bone protesting the movement, but it feels almost good. Pain means I'm still here, still capable of movement and fighting back.
I reach the window and brace my palms against the frame. The wood is solid beneath my hands, slightly rough where the varnish has worn. Outside, the world glows under a thin veil of frost. Pines glitter like they've been dusted with glass, each needle crystalline in the morning light. The breath of winter lingers just beyond the glass, crisp and merciless. The sky stretches endlessly above, in the particular shade of blue that exists only in the mountains.
Hope's somewhere out there, trapped in the dark while I stand here in the light. And I'm standing here, breathing air she can't reach, and feeling sunlight she can't see.
“I'll get you back,” I whisper, my voice cracking on the last word. The promise feels hollow, too big for my broken body to fulfill.
Vega limps closer, his gait still uneven from the bullet wound. He presses his body against my leg for balance, his warmthseeping through the thin fabric of my borrowed pajama pants. The solid warmth of him steadies me, anchoring me in the present moment.
I crouch, ignoring the protest from my ribs, and brush a hand along his fur. It's soft under my palm, thick and warm. “You saved me,” I murmur, my throat tight. “Now we save her.”
His ears flick. He lets out a soft, reassuring rumble, and for a second, the ache inside me eases, just a fraction but enough.
I rise again, slower this time, testing my balance. I take another step, and the floorboard groans beneath my feet. My reflection in the mirror looks ghostly, pale skin, tired eyes ringed with shadows, and my hair tangled from restless sleep. The girl staring back doesn't look like someone who could outsmart a man like Ray or navigate the labyrinth of Luka's empire. She looks like someone who should still be in bed, recovering, letting other people handle the hard choices. But she's all I have.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold together the pieces that keep threatening to fall apart. Luka's words echo in my head, looping endlessly.As long as there is a trail, I will follow it.
He believes he can find her. He believes he can fix everything with enough resources, manpower, and determination. I want to believe him, I really do. His certainty is a pull I almost want to sink into, but every second I wait feels like permission for whatever’s happening to Hope to keep happening. If I do nothing, if I rely on Luka’s men to chase a trail that might not even exist, Hope will be gone before they ever find her.
I close my eyes, listening to the clock on the wall tick in rhythm with my heartbeat, each second a countdown I feel in my bones.I won't let Luka's world destroy what's left of mine. If I have to walk the line between him and Ray to bring Hope back, then that’s what I’ll do, even if it breaks me.
2
LUKA
The warehouse breathes under my boots as I cross the catwalk, the steel humming with the thrum of engines below. Misha waits at the foot of the stairs, holding a tablet. He keeps the screen angled away from curious eyes, shoulders set, jaw tight. When I reach the bottom step, he adjusts the tablet, and the map of our routes blooms into color, three arterial lines running west along I-70 before branching toward the Front Range. The markers that should pulse green are dark now. Three trucks were confirmed an hour ago, and nothing but silence since.
“The signal cut out at 12:17,” Misha reports, his eyes glued to the tablet. “Convoy Seven left the main highway and took the side road near mile marker 214. After that, the trucks slowed fast and then stopped completely. The onboard alarm went off at the same time.”
“What about the escort?” I ask, keeping my tone steady.
“The local cops were thin on that stretch today,” he explains. “Our escort stayed back like planned, but they saw traffic slowing behind a line of orange cones that weren’t in any workorder. The cones pushed our trucks off to the shoulder and then smoke filled the road. That’s when the escort lost sight of them.”
“Smoke,” I repeat, as every instinct tells me it’s a warning.
“Black, thick, and chemical,” Misha details. “Not a wildfire. No wind signatures on the DOT cams.”
Albert strides in from the loading bay, each heavy step punctuating the room. He wears a dark jacket thrown over a tactical shirt, the sleeves pushed to his forearms, and his hands already gloved. His eyes note the map, cut to me, and then to Misha.
“I brought the heavy kit,” Albert informs us. “Our system logged several high-caliber shots in the last five minutes. That ridge will echo everything, so we won’t know the exact source until we’re on-site.”
Nikolay leaves my office, his pace easy and unhurried. His expression reveals nothing until he lifts one brow. “Our drivers?” he asks, his eyes darting to the tablet.
“We move now,” I order. “Misha rides with me. Albert, you take the medical kit and the drone. Kolya, you ride in the trail SUV and lock the rear. Anyone blocks the road, you clear it. If the convoy is compromised, we strip the scene, document everything, and bury whoever put hands on our men.”
We cut through the warehouse toward the wide gate. The cold of early winter slams into my lungs as the door opens, the mountain air shivering across my skin beneath the jacket. Snow clings to the peaks, a hard white crown that gleams beneath the sun that pretends to be warm. I step into the lead SUV and slide into the driver's seat. Right now, I want complete control of the road. Misha takes the passenger seat and buckles in. Albert andtwo of his men take their places in the second SUV. Nikolay climbs into the third with a driver and two enforcers.
