I ended the call and turned to Raine.
She was fully awake now. Calm. Focused. Deadly.
“They think they took me,” she said.
“Yes.”
“But they didn’t.”
“No.”
Her hand slid into mine, fingers lacing tight. “Then whoever they have is a message.”
I nodded. “And Sentinel doesn’t send messages unless he’s ready to escalate.”
Raine sat up, eyes burning. “Then let’s stop him before he gets another chance.”
I pressed my forehead to hers.
“Already moving,” I said.
Outside the cabin window, the sky darkened—clouds rolling in thick and fast.
A storm was coming.
And this time, Sentinel had just stepped into my marriage.
That was his mistake.
45
Logan
The truth didn’t announce itself.
It never did.
It crept in sideways—through numbers that didn’t line up and details no one else thought to question.
I stood in the mobile command unit, sleeves rolled to my elbows, eyes fixed on the transport manifest glowing across the main screen. Boone hovered to my right, Russ behind me, both silent now. They’d learned the hard way not to interrupt me when my instincts went still.
West Texas convoy.
Black-bag transport.
Unscheduled reroute.
They’d disguised it well.
Too well.
“Replay the loading footage,” I said.
Boone tapped the control. Grainy infrared footage filled the screen—figures moving fast, efficient, practiced. One woman stood out immediately.
Not because she fought.
Because she didn’t.
