Ghost's brain was already moving, mapping routes, calculating response times, running through tactical scenarios. If they'd switched cars in the industrial zone, they could have gone anywhere from there. But they'd need time. Time to transfer Rachel. Time to secure her. Time to make sure they weren't followed.
Time Ghost was going to use to hunt them down.
"Brick, Reaper, finish searching the house," he ordered, his voice steady despite the fury coiling tighter in his chest with every passing second. "She hid evidence. Files. Whatever she found that made them move on her. I need to know what we're dealing with."
They moved immediately, disappearing back toward the bedroom.
Ghost turned to Torch. "Gear up. We're moving as soon as Echo pins their location."
"Already done." Torch was checking his weapons with the efficient movements of someone who'd done it ten thousand times. Magazine out. Check the spring. Magazine in. Chamber round. Safety on.
Ghost's phone was still in his hand. He pulled up Rachel's contact one more time, thumb hovering over her picture, her smile bright and genuine, taken three weeks ago on the beach when she'd thought he wasn't looking.
His chest hurt. A physical ache that had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the woman in that photo being dragged into a van by men who wanted to keep her silent.
45
Rachel's shoulder slammed into the van's steel wall as the vehicle swerved hard to the left. Pain shot down her arm from the point of impact, sharp and immediate, running all the way to her fingertips like electricity. She didn't have time to process it before another turn threw her sideways. Her knee cracked against the ribbed metal floor and she heard the impact over the engine noise, a sick, hollow sound that told her she'd hit bone-on-metal.
Duct tape sealed her mouth. The adhesive pulled at her skin with every breath, the taste of it chemical and wrong on her lips. A blindfold pressed tight across her eyes, the fabric rough against her eyelids and smelling faintly of motor oil and sweat. Her wrists were bound behind her back with rope that bit deeper into her skin every time the van lurched and she instinctively tried to catch herself.
Everything hurt. Her shoulder throbbed in time with her pulse. Her knee felt wet, probably bleeding under her shorts. The tape over her mouth made her want to gag, made her hyperaware of every breath she had to drag through her nose. The air in the van was hot and stale, thick with the smell of diesel fumes and old rubber.
Don't panic. Count. Track. Stay present.
The techniques she'd learned in hostile territory came back automatically. Left turn. Approximately forty-five degrees based on how her body shifted against the wall. Speed maintaining, they weren't worried about being followed. Another right. Sharper this time, maybe sixty degrees. She tried to build a mental map, tried to calculate how far they'd traveled from Ghost's street.
Fifteen minutes? Twenty? Time felt slippery.
The van hit what felt like a pothole and Rachel flew upward. For a split second she was airless, suspended, then gravity slammed her back down. Her ribs connected with something hard, a wheel well, maybe, or a bracket mounted to the floor. The impact drove every bit of air from her lungs.
She gasped, fighting to pull oxygen through her nose while her diaphragm spasmed and refused to cooperate. Her vision went gray behind the blindfold. Panic clawed at her throat. Breathe. Just breathe.
Her nose whistled with each inhale. Not enough air. Never enough air.
Slowly, painfully, her lungs started working again. Short, shallow breaths that didn't require her ribs to expand much.
Laughter drifted from the front of the van. Male voices, casual and relaxed like they were discussing weekend plans instead of the woman they'd just violently abducted.
"She's gonna be good and banged up by the time we get there."
Amusement colored the words. Like her pain was entertaining. Like she was a piece of cargo that might arrive damaged.
"Like it matters," another voice added, this one rougher, older. Smoker's rasp. "Not like she needs to be in one piece."
Rachel's fingers curled into fists despite the zip ties cutting into her wrists. She focused on that sensation, nails digging into palms, the specific sharp pressure points. Pain she could control. Pain that was hers to choose.
Her mind was already working through the variables despite the fear trying to short-circuit her thoughts. Three distinct voices so far. Van layout suggested military surplus, no seats in the cargo area, ribbed steel flooring designed for easy hosing, what felt like an anchor ring mounted to the wall near her left shoulder. They'd grabbed her with professional efficiency but they were talkingopenly now. Either they didn't care if she heard or they didn't plan on her being able to tell anyone.
Neither option was good.
"She know where she is?" A new voice, younger than the others. Twenties, maybe.
"She will soon enough. Doesn't matter." The rough voice again, closer to the cab. "Get her there, get paid. That's the job."
Paid. Contract work. Hired muscle, not the people actually running the operation. That information might matter later.
If there was a later.
