“Nah,” he said. “Not on this one. You just get your friend home. Owen said she’s important to you.”
Important didn’t touch it. Important was a weak, flimsy word for what she was.
“I’m five minutes out.”
“I’ll have the hangar doors open. And Liam?”
“Yeah?”
“Bring her home safe, son.”
The line clicked off.
My chest tightened, a hard, prickling pressure right under my sternum—fear, memory, rage, all braided together. The same old phantom ache that lived under my ribs, the one that whispered:faster, faster, faster—before it’s too late.
I pushed the accelerator down, the truck surging forward.
The headlights carved through the dark Texas fields like they were clearing a path for me. Like they were begging me not to fail again.
Not her. Not this time.
The runway lights appeared in the distance, a beacon in the Texas darkness. Morrison’s Gulfstream would be waiting, fueled and ready. Owen's efficiency was legendary, and Tom Morrison owed him enough favors to fill a book.
Third call. Special Agent Diana Levvett—answered on the third ring. Music in the background, laughter. Normal people having normal Saturday nights.
"Walker? It's Saturday night, this better be?—"
"I need a favor. A big one."
The music faded immediately. She was already moving somewhere quieter. Diana knew my voice, knew I didn't call in favors unless someone was bleeding or about to be.
"Talk to me."
"Stevie Wilson. The country singer. She was attacked tonight in LA. I need to know everything LAPD has."
"Stevie Wilson?" A pause. I could practically hear her mental gears shifting from off-duty to federal agent. "That's outside your jurisdiction by about a thousand miles."
I didn’t have time for this. ”Diana."
"How do you even—never mind. Give me ten minutes. I'll call you back."
The truck's engine screamed as I pushed it harder, the speedometer edging past a hundred on the final straight stretch to the airfield. The headlights swept across the tarmac, illuminating Morrison's jet—sleek, white, already glowing with pre-flight checks.
My phone rang the second I killed the engine. I hadn’t even yanked the keys out before the Bluetooth lit up the cab.
DIANA LEVVETT.
I answered on the first ring.
“Liam.” Her voice was different—official, clipped, running on adrenaline and dread. “How do you know Stevie Wilson?”
I grabbed my go-bag from behind the seat—always packed, always ready—and slammed the door with my hip.
“We grew up together,” I said, already moving toward the plane. My boots hit the asphalt hard, each step vibrating through my bones. “She’s… she’s family. What did you find?”
Papers rustled. A keyboard clicked. In my mind, I could see her exactly: hair in a messy bun, badge beside her laptop, lamp glowing in the corner of her kitchen like she’d abandoned dinner the moment she pulled Stephy’s name up.
“It’s not good,” she said. Her voice had that careful edge—like she was steadying herself before swinging the axe. “LAPD responded to a 911 call at 7:47 PM. Signs of forced entry. Evidence of struggle. The victim?—”
