The waiting.
Lucy’s face flashes in my mind.Quinn’s.Five years old.Small.Trusting.And somewhere out there—I shove the thought down.
Focus.
“Got something,” Riot says.
We all move in.On the screen—Clint’s phone, mirrored and torn open piece by piece.
Messages.Videos.Images.
Then—There.A photo.
My stomach drops.Quinn.Marlaina.Tied to chairs.Duct tape over their mouths.Quinn’s eyes wide.Terrified.
Something in me snaps so hard it’s almost quiet.
“Where,” I say.
Riot’s already digging.
“Not him,” he mutters.“Different number.Sending him updates.”
Clint goes pale behind us.
“What the hell is that?”I turn slowly.“You don’t know?”
“No,” he says, and for the first time there’s real fear in his eyes.“I swear to God, I don’t?—”
Chux steps in.“Then you better start thinking who does.”
Riot curses under his breath.“Got location.Rental property.Louisiana.”
“Who sent it?”I ask.He pulls up the contact.
Name.
History.
Photos.
“Clint,” Riot says, voice flat.“Your ex.”
Clint’s face drains completely.“She’s crazy,” he breathes.“I told her to leave me alone months ago.I met someone new.Dumped her.”
“You attract that type,” Dodge mutters the obvious.
I’m already moving.
“Mount up.”
The ride to Louisiana is hell.Fast.Relentless.Every mile stretching like it’s ten.No one talks.No one jokes.Just engines and purpose.We don’t stop unless we have to.By the time we hit the rental, it’s dark.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
Lights off.No movement.
