"Show me."
She hands me her phone. The photo matches the drawing in the book.
"Did Sage see this?"
"Yes. She wanted to confirm it was the right one." Astrid's brow furrows as realization dawns at the same time it hits me.
She types fast without prompting:We want to buy it. Now.
No response.
"Shit," Astrid mutters. "You think—?"
"Let's see." I pull out my phone, open the hidden app. My chest tightens as the screen loads. Sage's location is outside Briar Hollow, heading the opposite way.
Astrid whistles low. "Spyware on her phone? Didn't think that was your style. Kayden's, sure. But you, Colonel?"
Kayden's voice is quiet, almost defensive. "Maybe I'm not always the bad guy."
My jaw locks. "It's not what it looks like. After she went to Darius on her own, I needed to do something. Insurance. Nothing more."
Donna frowns. "Itisbad, Asher."
"Maybe. But right now, it's the only lead we have."
Kayden's already moving. "Then let's go. No time to waste." He slides into the car.
I turn back fast. "You three stay. Explain everything to Jace and Eira. We'll return as soon as possible."
"Colonel," Tomas presses, "you need backup."
"We'll be fine. Whoever she's meeting won't expect us." I don't give them space to argue. I'm in the car the next moment, engine roaring, tires spitting water across the lot.
Kayden sits rigid beside me, jaw set, eyes hard with worry.
"We'll get her back," I say, voice steady even as my gut twists. "We'll bring our wife home."
I press the accelerator. The car surges forward, tearing through rain-slick asphalt, every second stretching too long.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sage
I'm twenty minutes early when I pull into the empty lot. The place looks like it's been abandoned for years—rusting fences, busted windows, weeds swallowing the cracked pavement. Not exactly welcoming, but black-market drops don't always happen in bright shopping centers on sunny days.
I step out into the rain and scan the shadows. Nothing moves.It's just an exchange, I tell myself. Weapon for payment. In and out.
Inside, the air reeks of wet wood and old oil. The light is dim, filtered through dirty windows, the storm outside dulling everything to gray. What's left here is rotting or rusted, scraps of industry long forgotten.
I find a relatively clean stretch of bench and sit, hands clasped tight, forcing myself to breathe past the rise of anxiety clawing at my throat. Minutes stretch, heavy and slow. Then, fifteen of them dragged out, the outer door creaks open.
I'm on my feet instantly, hand at the gun tucked at my waistband.
The figure stepping inside isn't who I expected.
"Darlene," I say, leveling the barrel at her chest.
She scoffs, almost amused. "What? You're going to shoot me just like that? Cold-blooded?"
