Ronan’s voice cuts through my ear, sharp and fast. “We’ve got the van on traffic cams for six seconds before they ghosted again. Black panel. Likely stolen plates. Moving east.”
“Route?”
“Three possibilities. Collapsing now.”
I don’t answer.
I’m already moving.
The bike roars to life under me, vibration running up through my arms as I tear out of the underground garage.
No lights.
No warning.
Just speed.
Cold.
Precise.
“They took her,” I say. “They didn’t kill her.”
“Yes,” Ronan replies. “Which means they want what she knows.”
Or what they think she has.
Or what she refuses to give.
My grip tightens on the throttle.
“Then they’re going to learn something,” I say.
The bike screams as I cut through traffic—wrong way down a one-way, slipping between cars, jumping a curb into a narrow service lane.
Everything narrows.
Focus sharpens.
There is no noise.
No doubt.
Just one objective.
Find her.
“Two routes collapsing,” Ronan says. “They’re favoring docks or old freight yards.”
“They’ll choose the place with layers,” I say immediately. “Not exits.”
“Agreed. Freight yards.”
I lean hard into a turn, tires skidding just enough to feel the edge before catching again.
The city blurs.
Lights streak.
