44
Adam
The jet hadn’t even finished leveling out when my secure line lit up.
I was halfway down the aisle, boots planted wide to absorb turbulence, one hand braced against the bulkhead. Asia blurred into a smear of bad light and worse instincts behind my eyes.
I knew before I answered.
Adam Carter didn’t get calls at this hour unless someone was bleeding—or someone I loved was in danger.
I thumbed the line open.
“Carter.”
Silence.
Then Logan’s voice came through—tight, controlled, and threaded with something sharp enough to cut skin.
“Where are you?”
“In the air,” I said immediately. “Outbound. What happened?”
A breath. Not relief. Calculation.
“Are you with Raine?”
The world narrowed.
“Yes,” I said. “She’s asleep beside me. Why?”
The silence stretched—long enough that my hand curled into a fist.
“Logan.”
“She’s alive,” he said finally. “You’re sure.”
I didn’t hesitate. “I don’t leave my wife unguarded. Ever. She hasn’t left my side since Missouri.”
Something broke on the other end of the line.
Not loudly.
Quietly.
The way bone gives before it snaps.
“They hit a convoy in West Texas,” Logan said. “Black-bag transport. Precision ambush. They took someone.”
Cold slid down my spine.
“They said it was Raine.”
I closed my eyes.
“Logan,” I said carefully, already running timelines, access points, false flags. “It wasn’t her.”
“I know that now,” he said. “But they wanted us to think it was.”
