Sedation.
My hands curl into fists.
If Hammond touched her—if he scared her—if she’s awake enough to know what’s happening— I shove the thought away before it shatters my control.
Control is what gets her back.
I reach the hallway junction where the lab corridor opens toward a side exit.
And there—half-hidden behind a base directory sign—is a tiny smudge of glittering plastic.
A broken piece of her keychain. I recognize it because I noticed it last night when she dropped her bag.
A stupid little charm shaped like a tiny wrench.
My pulse slams.
Direction confirmed.
I take a photo, send it to Chen with one sentence:
FOUND TRACE. SIDE EXIT.
Then I move faster.
I reach the side exit and push through—cold air hits my face, sharp and clean. The service area outside is active enough to hide movement.
There are tire tracks in the thin layer of snow—fresh. A van-size tread pattern leading out.
My nostrils flare.
I grip my phone so hard the edges bite into my palm. Chen calls me. I answer in a hurry. “Go for Crewe.”
“We have a visual.”
“Show me,” I say.
“I’m sending stills,” she replies.
My phone pings.
A grainy frame loads: the side exit door, captured from a cam mounted above the service bay. A white van angled just enough to block the view from the main walkways.
Another still: two men in civilian jackets, moving quickly.
Another: Hammond.
And then?—
Riley.
Her head down, her body slack in that way that makes rage go white-hot. A man has her under the arms, guiding her like she can’t stand on her own.
My vision goes sharp and cold. “She’s drugged,” I say.
“Agreed,” Chen snaps. “We have the plate.”
“Run it,” I say.
