A distraction.
My blood turns ice-cold as the truth detonates in my chest.
Dove is still at the mechanic shop.
Alone.
Unprotected.
Dread curdles.Fear pummels.I spin on my heel and run.
“That wasn’t her,” Carl shouts from the entrance of the harbor.
No shit.
Two blocks ahead, the other three guards sprint hard, tearing back toward the mechanic shop with trained speed.They blow past people, past carts, past shouting voices, all of it blurring into noise in their wake.
I’m right behind or trying to be.
My phone’s in my hand again, my thumb slamming the screen.
“Come on, Dove.Pick up.”
Ring.Ring.Ring.
“Pick up,” I snarl under my breath, lungs ripping and legs on fire.“Pick up.Pick up.”
It goes to voice mail.
Carl falls in beside me, matching my stride as he switches between his headset and radio, calling all units and dispatching teams to the tattoo parlor and the mechanic shop.
My world narrows to one thing.
Getting to her.
My lungs feel too small as I pump my arms and overdrive my legs, letting the pain turn into fuel.Anyone in my way gets flattened.Anyone near her when I arrive is dead.I will tear this town apart if I have to.
I don’t think about the blood in the tattoo shop.
I don’t think about Jag missing.
I think about her laugh, her kiss, and the way she rolled backward into that shop like nothing bad could touch her there.
If anyone has—
If anyone—
I bare my teeth and run.
Carl shouts into his mic, spitting coordinates and rerouting bodies.He glances at me once, sees my face, and doesn’t try to slow me down.
I skid into the garage seconds after the security team, breath tearing out of my chest in ragged pulls.
“Clear!”someone shouts.
I blow past them and into the bays where she should be.
The shop is wrong in a way I recognize instantly.Too still.Tools laid out mid-thought.A creeper abandoned halfway under a lift.
