My heart clenches at her words. I wish I could believe it.
Asher comes back upstairs, his expression grim. “The basement’s clear, but we shouldn’t waste time. I’ll get the car running.”
“Zane?” I call out, zipping the bags and slinging one over my shoulder.
He appears in the doorway, his rifle slung over his back. “All clear for now. Let’s move.”
When I reach for Ella’s teddy bear, something feels off. It feels…different. I squeeze it, and the faint rustle of paper stops me cold. My pulse spikes as I find a seam that’s been carefully stitched shut, almost invisible against the worn fur.
“What are you waiting for?” Asher calls out.
“One second,” I answer.
I grab scissors from the kitchen and snip the thread, pulling out a folded piece of paper. It’s another photo. My stomach drops.
It’s of the girls asleep in their bedroom..
My breath catches as I turn it over, and my heart clenches at the words scrawled in his familiar, precise handwriting:
“You can’t hide them forever.”
CHAPTER 8
DAMON
The humof the city filters through the thick glass windows of my office. Even on the twentieth floor, the buzz of traffic, honking horns, and the occasional wail of a siren never completely fades.
The space is dimly lit, a single desk lamp casting a pool of light over the papers scattered across my desk. The walls are lined with shelves, and a giant whiteboard takes up most of my personal space. On the whiteboard are surveillance photos tacked up with pins, financial records taped beside them, and red strings crisscrossing between points. The only common connection is Jason Whitmore.
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under me, and pick up another stack of bank statements. Offshore accounts. Transactions routed through shell companies with names so generic, they scream fake. I trace the line to the next photo on the wall: a weapons cache we uncovered in Kandahar, linked to Jason’s old network. Payments match up too neatly to be coincidence.
“This isn’t just some deadbeat ex,” I mutter, spreading the bank statements across the desk. My fingers tighten around the edges of another photo of Jason, grinning like he’s won thelottery, standing with a man I know only by reputation. An arms dealer. International level.
The fluorescent light buzzes faintly, adding to the static already roaring in my head. My gut clenches. Jason Whitmore isn’t just a stalker, or even a common criminal.
“Who is this guy?” I murmur, staring at the face in the photo. I know him on paper. I know the files I’ve dug up, the operations he’s botched, the lives he’s ruined. But every new connection I uncover makes him seem less like a man and more like a damn hydra. Cut one head, and two more take its place.
I shove back from the desk and pace to the window. How did I not see it when I worked with him for almost six months? The guy’s good at putting up pretenses. Back on base, he was never more than an acquaintance. As a habit, I tried not to make friends with fellow soldiers. Their loss always brought more pain than anything else. But Jason had weaseled his way into my close circle. I thought he was an eager fellow, happy to please the people around me. It wasn’t until I met Mia at the bar that fateful night that I could even imagine he had a darker side.
My phone buzzes on the desk, jolting me from my thoughts. I glance at the screen, seeing Zane’s name light up. For a moment, I debate letting it go to voicemail. But if he’s calling, it’s because he’s found something.
“Talk to me,” I answer, leaning back in my chair, my gaze flicking to the web on the wall. Jason’s smug face stares back at me from a photo in the corner, and I swear under my breath. If this doesn’t end soon, none of us are getting out clean.
“Where are you?” Zane’s voice is clipped, urgency threading every word.
“At the office, doing research.” My eyes flick to the mess of papers and photos strewn across the desk. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve got a situation,” he says, the tension in his tone sharp enough to cut glass. “Whitmore invaded the home. Madea mess. It’s a warning that Mia’s not safe. I’m moving her to the safehouse.”
My jaw tightens. Jason’s audacity never fails to amaze me. For Asher and Zane to pull a move like this, Jason must have crossed another line. One I’ll make damn sure he pays for.
“Details?” I ask, already standing and grabbing my jacket.
I hear Zane exhale, a hard sound over the line. “Photos. He left them everywhere. One of them was from her bedroom, taken last night. He’s been inside, Damon. Watching them while they slept.”
A chill runs through me. Not much shakes me anymore, but this? This is a different level of violation. Jason isn’t just dangerous. He’s escalating, playing a game that’s personal and calculated.
I force my voice to stay even and professional. “I’m on my way.”
