Charles puts it on speaker. “Where’s Parker?”
49
CAL
The Gulfstream G650 cuts through the sky at 590 miles per hour, the fastest civilian aircraft I could get us access to on zero notice. It’s registered to a shell company buried under seventeen layers of corporations, trusts, and offshore entities. On paper, it belongs to a tech investment firm based in Delaware that doesn’t exist. In reality, it’s mine. One of several assets I’ve kept completely separate from Carter operations for exactly this kind of emergency.
Can’t fly to rescue Parker in a jet that traces back to the organization. Too many questions. Too much exposure.
So we’re flying in a ghost.
I’ve been working since we left the mill to get to Hickory Regional Airstrip and I’m making headway. I’ve got three laptops open on the cabin table, screens filled with data streams, security feeds, location tracking, communications intercepts. My fingers move across keyboards in a rhythm I don’t have to think about anymore, muscle memory from twenty years of doing this work.
Left screen: Flight tracking data, FAA records, private jet registrations, transponder signals. The jet Ryan put Parker on. I’ve been following it since I found the surveillance footage of him carrying her unconscious body onto the tarmac.
Center screen: Ground activity at the destination airport. Traffic cameras, car service dispatch logs, rental vehicle databases, ride-share apps. Every possible way Ryan could transport Parker from the airport to wherever he’s taking her.
Right screen: Property records, real estate transactions, rental listings, Airbnb bookings. Every property within a fifty-mile radius of where that jet is headed.
My tablet is propped beside the laptops, displaying the jet’s current position, flight path, estimated landing time. Updating in real-time as I track its progress.
Charles is across from me, phone pressed to his ear, coordinating with security teams. He just hung up with Sienna, his face still tight with controlled fury from hearing that Parker thought she was meeting us in Asheville.
Except we never called her.
Except Ryan Matthews used sophisticated deepfake technology to impersonate me on a video call.
Except Parker is on a jet right now, unconscious or restrained, being taken God knows where by the man who orchestrated an attack on her children.
Silas is near the cockpit, staring out the window with the kind of stillness that means he’s already planning how to kill Ryan Matthews slowly.
Jace is beside me, weapon disassembled on the table, cleaning and checking each component with methodical precision. His steel-blue eyes keep flicking to my screens, watching the data scroll past.
“Talk to me, Cal,” Charles says, ending his call. “Where is she?”
“I found her on surveillance footage from a private tarmac forty minutes ago.” I don’t look up, my eyes tracking the flight data on the left screen, my fingers pulling up the video file on the center screen. “Ryan carried her to a Gulfstream G280. She was unconscious. Looked like she’d been drugged.”
I play the footage. The image quality isn’t great but it’s clear enough. Ryan Matthews carrying Parker’s limp body across the tarmac, her head lolling against his shoulder. Two other men with him, both armed, both scanning for threats.
Charles makes a sound low in his throat. Silas turns from the window, his grey eyes fixed on the screen.
“Registration?” Charles asks, his voice dangerously calm.
“Private aircraft, registered to a charter company based in Virginia.” I’m already pulling up the ownership structure. “But the company’s a front. Shell corporation owned by another shell corporation owned by three more. I’m breaking down the chain now but it’ll take time.”
“Do we care who owns it?” Silas asks. “We know where it’s going.”
“We do.” I pull up the flight plan on the left screen. “Filed flight plan shows destination as Asheville Regional Airport. Private terminal, minimal security, perfect for discreet arrivals.”
“ETA?”
I check the live tracking data. “They landed twenty-two minutes ago.”
“Fuck,” Jace breathes. “She’s already on the ground.”
“Which means Ryan’s already moving her.” I’m switching screens rapidly now, pulling up everything I can access about Asheville Regional’s private terminal. “But I’ve got traffic cameras around the airport. I’m running facial recognition and vehicle tracking on everything that left the private terminal in the past twenty-five minutes.”
My fingers fly across the keyboard. Left hand navigating camera feeds, right hand running recognition algorithms, eyes tracking multiple data streams simultaneously.
