"They killed Jason," I whisper. "He stepped in front of Amauri, and they just—shot him. Like it was nothing." Dad doesn't react. "They took Carter. They tipped his chair, dragged him—" I go on, even as my voice is breaking. "Dad, they dragged Amauri. He was screaming. For me. I fought them. I bit one of them. I—I rolled down the hill. I thought I was going to die."
I start crying again, ugly and unstoppable. Dad watches me with an intensity that feels like scrutiny, not comfort.
"Did they say any names?" he asks.
"No."
"Threats?"
"No."
"Demands?"
I shake my head. "I don't know, I couldn't understand them."
Silence stretches between us.
Finally, Dad leans back, steepling his fingers. "That's a problem."
My stomach drops. "What do you mean?"
"It means," he says, "that this isn't about money."
A chill crawls up my spine.
"Then what is it about?" I whisper.
Dad looks at me for a long moment. And for the first time since the limo, I see something like uncertainty flicker behind his eyes.
"That," he says slowly, "is what we're going to find out."
"I think they were speaking Spanish," I remember. Talking hurts. I must have hurt my throat pretty badly when I screamed Amauri's name.
Dad's eyes sharpen.
"There was a helicopter. They came with it." I recall the moment it took off. The moment my heart broke into a thousand pieces when I realized Amauri was on it.
That does it for him.
He pulls his phone out again, fingers moving fast, turning away from me as if I've ceased to exist.
"I need flight registers," he demands without greeting or apology to whoever is on the other end. "Private, charter, med-evac, everything. Radar readings too…" A pause, "No, do not flag it. And absolutely do not let this go public."
I push myself up from the chair, pain screaming in protest. "What does that mean? Dad?"
He lifts a hand without looking at me.Wait.
I don't.
"I'm right here," I cry. "They took my family. You don't get to shut me out."
He turns back to me at last, phone still in his hand.
"We need to establish patterns," he sounds like he's just trying to pacify me. "That's all."
"Patterns of what?" I demand. "Who would do this? Why?"
Before he can answer, his phone dings with an incoming message. I see it before he can turn it away. Carter. Strapped into a helicopter seat, face pale, jaw clenched. A harness cutting across his chest. And beside him?—
