I get to my feet and force air into my chest. One breath. Two. Then I move. I sprint back through the service entrance, past toppled monitors and scattered papers, past the smell of smoke and panic that clings to the newsroom like a stain. My phone’s already in my hand.
I call Cal before I even hit the hallway.
He answers on the first ring. “Sin.”
“They took her,” I say.
No preamble. No extra words. Cal doesn’t need them. His voice goes sharp. “Where?”
“Her paper. Back lot. Van. Corporate team. Grant was on site.”
A beat of silence, then Cal’s tone drops into command. “You sure it was Grant.”
“I saw him. Heard him. He ordered it.”
“Copy,” Cal says. “Stay on the line. I’m pulling eyes.”
I jog toward the back door, scanning the lot through the glass. The street is empty. No headlights. No lingering silhouettes.
Cal’s voice continues, clipped and fast. “Describe the van.”
“Dark. Likely a rental or a fleet. No markings. Sliding side door.”
“Direction of travel.”
“Out of the back lot toward the service road,” I reply. “South gate.”
“Okay,” Cal says. I hear keys tapping, multiple voices in the background. “I’m waking the Boathouse. Stand by.”
I push outside again, cold air slicing my lungs. I move to the spot where the van peeled out and crouch, ignoring the pain. Gravel is scattered. Fresh tire tracks, deep enough to tell me they accelerated hard. They planned it. Grant doesn’t improvise. He executes.
Cal’s voice returns, crisp. “I’ve got a camera on the road two miles from the paper. Dark van, matches your description, passed four minutes ago. Heading toward the private airfield off Route 17.”
My blood turns to ice and fire at the same time. “Fuck.”
“We’re mobilizing,” Cal says. “I’ve got two teams rolling. I’m sending you a pin. You’re closest. Do not go in blind.”
I stand, already moving. “I’m going.”
“I know you are,” Cal replies. “Listen. The team is five minutes out from you. Meet them at the access road. We hit fast, we hit clean.”
My jaw tightens. “They’re putting her on a plane.”
“Yes,” Cal says. “Which means we have a timeline. You’re not doing this alone, Sinclair.”
I don’t answer, because if I do, the sound that comes out of me won’t be controlled. It’ll be rage. I end the call and run to the sedan. As I drive, the world narrows to headlights and road lines and one single thought that pounds with my heartbeat.
Rowan.
Her face flashes in my mind. Brown eyes. Sharp mouth. Brave spine. The way she looked at me when she finally stopped pretending she didn’t want me. The way she fell asleep in my arms like she believed I could hold the whole world back.
I grip the wheel hard enough that my knuckles whiten.
I love her. The words land in my chest with brutal clarity. Love is the thing I never let myself have. Love is the liability. Love is the reason men hesitate. But it’s also the reason I’m going to tear a runway apart with my bare hands if I have to. I take a turn onto the access road as Cal’s pin flashes on the GPS.
Two Salt & Steel SUVs are waiting, engines running, lights off.
Cal’s team. Operators in dark gear, moving with purpose. One steps out as I pull up.
