The name hit harder now, like the last puzzle piece she didn’t want to recognize. Buddy had nightmares carved into his bones because of that man—because of who he couldn’t save.
And EJ…
EJ was the root that fed the whole damn thing.
Fallon’s voice shook, but she didn’t back down. “You don’t get to break him. Or me.”
EJ smiled. It was wide. Big. Happy, even. “I already have.”
Her wrists throbbed. Her ribs hurt. Grief swelled so big inside her she almost couldn’t speak.
“How many girls?” Fallon whispered.
“So many,” EJ said with boredom. “And thirty more waiting, right now. Neatly packaged. Ready to move. My ex-wife is moving them in an hour.”
“Wait. You told Buddy?—”
EJ laughed. Hard. “He can’t save them. They’re already locked up in a shipping container. He’ll never find them. He thinks he has a choice. And my guess is, he’ll choose you and the old lady. As for the girls? It won’t matter.”
“And if he chooses the girls?”
“That’s the fun part of this game, because no matter who he chooses, everyone still dies.” He turned away. “Sorry. But it’s my playbook. My rules. And Buddy has to suffer the consequences of his actions.” He lifted his phone. “So predictable.” He sighed. “He’s already called off his other drivers and they will, no doubt, be racing toward our direction. But my team will follow, and there are more along the way. They’ll get cut off at the pass. Buddy can’t win no matter what he does. This time, he won’t be able to save anyone.”
Fallon swallowed salt and fire. “You won’t get away with this.”
EJ chuckled. “Sweetheart, I already have.”
Something shifted in the SUV—subtle as a breath, sharp as a blade slipping between ribs. Fallon couldn’t name it, but she felt it, a wrongness coiling under the floorboards, vibrating up the zip ties cutting her skin. EJ straightened in the front seat, not alert, not tense—satisfied, like he’d just reached the chapter of a story he’d been dying to tell. The road grew quieter, narrower, darker, and c dread crawled up Fallon’s spine with cold, certain fingers. Whatever was coming next wasn’t negotiation. It wasn’t posturing. It was the moment everything tilted—and every instinct she owned screamed that Buddy was about to walk straight into something designed to break him.
Flagler’s number lit Buddy’s phone like a flare in the dark.
He answered before the second ring. “Tell me you’ve got something.”
Flagler didn’t waste breath. “We’ve got confirmation. A tanker under Quinn Bellows’ manifest is scheduled to leave Miami in an hour. Containers loaded. Coast Guard has been authorized to lock it down. If those girls are on that ship, they’re not going anywhere.”
Relief didn’t come. Not even close. Too much could still go wrong.
“You won’t be there in time,” Buddy said.
“Forty-five minutes out,” Flagler said. “Pisses me off, but the port’s covered. Your two men are there. Miami PD. Feds. It’s covered. Your job is not to die before the night is over.”
Buddy almost laughed. It came out as breath—thin, strained. “Copy.” He ended the call.
Dawson shot him a quick glance. “That sounded promising.”
“It’s something,” Buddy said, which wasn’t a lie, but wasn’t close to the whole truth. His pulse hammered hard enough to make his jaw ache.
The comm crackled.
Dove’s voice—tight. Moving. “Buddy—we’ve got a situation.”
Buddy tensed. “Report.”
“When we broke off to go dark? They tailed us. They’re following Keaton and me, now.”
Sterling chimed in next. “Same here. The second we pulled out, they pulled in behind us. They’re not subtle about it either. Riding my ass like they want to be lovers.”
Dawson’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “We’re driving into a trap.”
