I know him.
Even though I met him once—just once—and it was a year ago, when Sophie was still Sophie and not a ghost in my heart.
Damon Ford.
He stops at my door and looks right at me through the tinted glass like he knew exactly which vehicle I was in.
Like he knew exactly where I’d be.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
He raises his hand slowly, almost like he’s greeting me. Then he swings something hard—metal, maybe—and smashes it into the window.
The glass spiderwebs, cracks racing across it.
I scream—finally, instinct taking over—but my scream is swallowed by the sound of shattering glass as he hits it again.
The window explodes inward. Cold air rushes in.
My body recoils, hands coming up. He reaches through, grabs my coat, and yanks me toward the broken opening.
I kick. I claw. I twist. “No!” I scream. “Gavin!”
Ford’s eyes are cold. “Wrong mountain, sweetheart.”
Two more men appear behind him, moving fast.
One of them opens the other door—how?—like they have a jammer or a tool, like locks are just suggestions to people like this.
A gloved hand clamps over my mouth.
I bite.
Hard.
The man grunts, jerking back, but Ford catches my wrist and twists it, pain shooting up my arm.
“Stop,” he says, voice low and furious. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
I shake my head wildly, trying to scream again, but the hand over my mouth stays firm. My eyes burn with tears and rage as I thrash.
Ford leans in close enough that I can smell him—clean cologne and something rotten underneath.
“You took something that belongs to us,” he murmurs. “We’re collecting.”
“I don’t have him!” I choke out the words against the hand.
Ford’s smile is sharp. “No. But you know where he is.”
My stomach drops.
They’re not here for just me.
They’re using me.
A horn blares in the distance. A shout.
But it’s too late.
