"Then I'll die trying," he says.
And I know he means it.
19
Silas
The warehouse sits on the edge of Miami's industrial district.
Rusted corrugated metal.
Cracked concrete.
Chain-link fence topped with razor wire.
It looks abandoned.
That's the point.
Jace is beside me in the passenger seat, laptop balanced on his knees, fingers flying across the keyboard.
"Three heat signatures on the perimeter," he says.
His voice is calm.
Focused.
"Two at the north entrance, one roaming the east side."
"Inside?"
"Twelve total," Jace says.
"Eight clustered in what looks like a holding area."
"Four spread throughout—probably guards."
I nod once.
Sharp.
Decisive.
"How many girls?"
Jace's jaw tightens.
"At least six confirmed."
"Could be more in the back rooms."
Six.
Maybe more.
And Inez is one of them.
I glance in the rearview mirror.
