Dax doesn’t kick my ass. Doesn’t try to dislodge my hands from his shoulders. But the way his gaze bores into mine from behind the glasses? I swear he can see me. “Are you done?”
“Done?”
He’s so calm, it would be terrifying if I cared one bit about my own life right now. “Yes, done. If so, answer the goddamned question and get your hands off me.”
“Dax, leave the kid alone.” The rough voice booming from the speakers surprises everyone, and I release my boss to see Ryker standing behind Wren on screen. “Ronan’s right. Zephyr wouldn’t have left him. And she’s not a killer. We have proof of that.”
“Care to tell me where this proof came from? And how the hell would you know what she would or wouldn’t do?” Dax takes a tentative step forward until his right hand brushes the edge of the conference table.
“Wren found a photo of Zephyr in Stockholm on the day Yoden was killed,” Ryker says. “As for the latter? She loves him. We saw that plain as day last night.”
Dax turns in my direction. “Love? Last night? You said you’d talked to her. You never told me you weresleepingwith her.”
“Because all you wanted to do was turn her over to the authorities! Every fuckin’ time I tried to tell you she was innocent, that this case was a mess, you told me I had a job to do, and you expected me to do it!”
Removing his glasses, Dax sinks down into his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s his go-to move when he’s thinking or frustrated. “Yes. I expected you to do your job. Do you remember what your jobwas?Bring in Jasper Yoden’s killer. You told me Zephyr didn’t kill him, but you were being so goddamned cagey, I didn’t know what the hell was going on. I should have called you on it. And I should have listened.”
He rises and, in two steps, he’s standing directly in front of me, anguish written in the lines around his eyes, the set of his jaw. “I’m sorry, Ronan.”
I’m so shocked at the apology, I can’t form a response. Until Dax pounds the table hard enough to rattle all the water glasses someone—probably Marjorie—set out for us. “We’ve wasted too much time not beingcompletelyhonest with one another. That stops now. Understood?”
One by one, we all agree, and the video screen splits to show the street behind Martín’s house. “I pulled this just a few minutes ago,” Wren says.
Zephyr walks between Oliver and Theo, her hands clasped in front of her. The three of them turn right, walk another half a block, and stop next to a black sedan. Oliver pins Zephyr against the car, and she struggles until Theo reaches for her neck. Under a minute later, they toss her into the trunk, slam the lid, and drive away.
“Those two men are…fuck. I need a minute.” Stalking over to the window, I stare out at the snow falling steadily. We’re supposed to get six inches today. Even more tomorrow. And they threw her into the trunk of a car.
Behind me, Wren takes over and fills everyone in. “The man in front of Zephyr shares her basic bone structure. Pretty safe to say that’s her brother, Oliver. Facial recognition is running on all the traffic cameras in the area and against all known databases, but as you know, that could take days to get a positive match. The other man is Theodore Hallswell. We knowa lotabout him. He’s been arrested more than once. The last time was in Nice, France, for assault, false imprisonment, and manslaughter, but the case was dismissed after every credible witness disappeared or recanted their story.”
“That’s the cartel’s doing. The last time they captured Zephyr,” my voice cracks, and I brace my arm on the window, “Theo tortured her for three days. She barely survived.” Shit. I can’t do this. Can’t talk about her painknowingshe’s going to suffer so much more. Might alreadybesuffering. Trevor takes my arm and guides me to a chair.
“Sit, man. Before you fall down.”
Wren clears her throat. “Ronan, I followed the car for three miles before it entered a dead zone. All the traffic cameras in a six-block radius were disabled or jammed. They went offline at 10:00 a.m. this morning and came back online two minutes ago. The car never emerged from that black hole.”
Dax turns to Second Sight’s newest junior investigator. “Tank? I want you all over that area. Every parking garage. Alley. Side street. Let us know what you find.”
“On it. Wren, send the map to my phone?” he asks.
“Already there.”
“They’ll take her somewhere private,” Trevor says. “That neighborhood is densely populated. Ronan, tell us everything you know about the cartel’s movements since Zephyr arrived in Boston. We need to find patterns. Run probabilities.”
I drop my head into my hands. “And pray. Because we’re goin’ to need a miracle to save her.”
* * *
Zephyr
It’s dark. Cold. More than cold. Frigid. Everything hurts. My back. Arms. Legs. My head most of all. I can’t raise it more than an inch. The sedative Theo gave me is keeping my panicalmostmanageable, but that won’t last long. I’m stuffed in a rough, wooden box so small, my knees are forced up under my chin, and there’s no light. No give to the slats.
Tugging at my wrists, I cry out as the cuffs cut into my skin. “Please,” I whisper. “Whatever…you’re going to do…get it over with.”
I can’t scream. Can’t beg for my life. That’s what they want. Theo. François. Even Oliver. But with every minute that passes, I’m more alert. My chest stutters, and I try to count. Breathe in for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight. But I can’t even manage the first few seconds.
My body flails, no longer listening to my brain’s desperate attempts to stay calm. Banging my head and shoulders against the wood, I can’t feel the pain. Only the enormous weight of the panic attack pressing down on me. My heels scrape the bottom, and splinters dig into my soles. Splinters. Oh, my God. I’m not wearing shoes. Or socks. I can feel my bra. My panties. Nothing else.
They took my clothes.
