Regina lifts her head to look at him. “Not like that. If anything, it would have a broken time track if it lost signal. It would have multiple entries, not a continuous one.”
“Enlarge it, Gina,” I ask, my hands palming the desk as I watch her enlarge the route.
From Conrad’s home, there’s a straight line until the marker moves around a bit, like the tracker’s on the move and following various roads before it goes in another straight line. It does it a total of three times.
Then it hits me like a fucking train.
My fingertip almost punches the screen so hard, the liquid behind it shudders. “That’s the fucking manor in the middle.”
Rex and Dawson lean over to stare, but it’s Rex who mumbles, “Motherfuckers.”
“Would they have access to a plane? A helicopter?” Regina asks.
I shake my head. “No. Even if they did, that doesn’t look like a flight path; the speed at reaching the locations would be quicker.”
“Tunnels.”
All four of us raise our heads to look at my dad standing in front of the desk, the double doors swinging behind him, and my neck tightens when he speaks again. “It sounds like they’ve used underground tunnels. Has to be the only way if it’s a straight route.”
My hands fist at his words, and my knees want to drop and fucking thank him.
When I look at the last location it moved around before heading out into the body of water, I clamp up. “That’s Conrad’s coastal home.”
The one home he never visits, that’s laid vacant ever since I managed to get a feed plotted outside it.
Rex slaps the table as he shouts, “Now it makes fucking sense.”
Dawson runs his hands through his hair. “That’s why we’ve never found out how they move their victims.”
We’ve had eyes on all three residences; we’ve never seen any large vehicles going in or out.
The women they abduct are always just fucking there.
And I haven’t had reports Conrad or George have left that fucking manor since the event.
They have tunnels running from Harriston, the manor, and the coastal home.
All three are in perfect fucking alignment.
“Fucking hell,” Regina growls, eyes batting from the pathway the Omnia have likely worked on for years; these tunnels could be as old as their society. “You think she’s being kept at the coast?”
“She could be at either one.”
I take a shuddering breath. These fucks want to play games; I thrive on breaking people’s minds. “It’s a decoy. They want us to believe she’s in that water being shipped off. Either way, we need to search all three, and use the tunnels to our advantage,” I say.
What they won’t account for is me tracking his house near the coast, and he won’t know that I’m aware of the tunnels connecting all three.
Dawson located that house in the file years ago; it’s not even in any of the Montgomerys’ names. He’s had it since he graduated, a gift for him to carry out his sickening desires.
I gave up looking at it because there was never any activity. All the while, they’ve been travelling underground between the three locations.
They’ll think I’ll be out chasing the tracker in the water, that I’ll be vulnerable and desperate and not taking into account any of their twists.
Dad makes his way over, tightening a hand on my shoulder. “Where does your gut tellyouto go?” he asks, eyeing me with a narrowed gaze. He taught me to always trust it, my intuition, my instincts.
It might have taken a dent at Indie’s mom’s, but now, it’s roaring to life.
All of them have the needle screaming at the coast, and I tell him exactly that.
