Then he shoved me backward into the van.
The back of my knees hit the metal hard and fast, forcing my back to fall flat on the van floor. Two Wolves yanked my legs up, and pushed them from above me, forcing me to roll backwards into the vehicle. Screams came from the enslaved workers already inside. My shoulder—the grazed one—slammed against the bare floor steel as I rolled, and the pain whited out everything for a full second.
The rear doors slammed shut. The latch engaged with a heavy metallic clang that echoed through the dark interior. The light vanished. Everything reduced to the smell of sweat and fear.
The engine roared. The van lurched forward. Acceleration that slammed me against the rear doors.
In the dark, someone was sobbing. Someone else was praying—rapid, breathless Spanish, the words running together. A woman's voice, high and thin, repeating the same phrase overand over. A man hyperventilating beside me, the sound wet and ragged. All workers were sitting or crouching low on the bare metal floor, pressing against each other in a wheeled prison that offered not enough space.
"Escúchenme." My voice came out destroyed—a raw scrape that barely carried over the engine noise. I swallowed. Tasted blood. Tried again, louder. "Escúchenme. Me llamo Logan. No soy uno de ellos. Estoy con ustedes."
Listen to me. My name is Logan. I am not one of them. I am with you.
The sobbing didn't stop. But the praying slowed. A few heads turned in the darkness—I could feel the shift of attention more than see it.
"Hay personas que vienen a ayudarnos. Gente buena. Van a encontrarnos."
There are people coming to help us. Good people. They will find us.
"¿Cómo lo sabes?" A young voice. Male. Shaking.
How do you know?
Because Diego Rosas did not leave people behind. That was the one thing I knew with absolute certainty in the back of a van full of strangers.
"Confíen en mí.I said quietly.
Trust me.
The van hit a turn. Hard. The tires screamed against the road as the driver wrenched the wheel, changing direction away from the ranch. The vehicle tilted violently onto two wheels for a sickening instant before slamming back down. Bodies flew. I was thrown sideways into the metal wall, my injured shoulder taking the impact. Workers tumbled over each other—arms and legs tangling, cries of pain, the dull thud of skulls against bare steel. A woman landed across my legs. A man slammed into the rear doors.
The van straightened. Accelerated. The engine roared in a low gear before the transmission caught and the speed climbed.
I pulled myself upright against the wall. Pressed my hand against the injured shoulder. Felt the warmth of fresh blood soaking through.
The van had no windows. But the rear doors had a gap—a thin sliver where the latch didn't seat flush, a line of gray light no wider than a finger.
I pressed my eye to the gap.
The compound was falling away behind us. The buildings shrinking. The headlights dimming with distance. And on the road, growing smaller with every second, a figure.
Diego.
He was running. Full sprint down the access road, his boots hammering the packed dirt, the Desert Eagle raised in his right hand, arm extended, the muzzle tracking the van. Not firing. He couldn't fire—the van was full of people, and a .50 caliber round could punch through the thin metal doors and through whoever was on the other side.
The distance grew. His figure shrank. But even from here, even through a gap no wider than my finger, I could see it—the desperation in his stride. The way his legs drove against the road as if he could close the distance through sheer refusal to stop. The way his arm stayed up, the Desert Eagle aimed and useless, because lowering the weapon would mean accepting that we were gone.
He didn't lower it.
The road curved right. The van leaned into the turn and the force threw me sideways, my right side slamming against the wall, ripping my eye from the gap. I scrambled back. Pressed my face against the doors again, searching for the sliver of light.
Empty road. Pale dawn. Dust settling.
He was gone.
I sat in the dark van with my back against the cold metal wall. Twenty-some bodies pressed around me. The smell of fear and blood and diesel. My shoulder bleeding. My throat raw. My weapons gone.
I pressed my palm against my shoulder. Felt the crimson wetness. Listened to the breaths of the people around me in the dark.
