“That’s my son.”
“And now he’s insurance.”
A cold sickness rolled through Wade’s gut.
“You follow through with the shipment,” Varga continued, “you keep your sheriff under control, and your boy goes home.”
Wade swallowed hard.
“And the girl?”
A pause.
Then—“She’s our problem now.”
Wade went still.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means she’s leaving North Carolina.”
Fear crept deeper into him now.
“Miami?”
“Maybe.”
A beat.
“Maybe halfway there.”
Wade stared out over the estate, but for the first time in years it didn’t feel like his land anymore.
“This is unnecessary.”
“No,” Varga said calmly. “What’s unnecessary is the mess you created.”
Wade said nothing.
“You let local law enforcement get too close. You let that girl start asking questions.” Varga paused. “This is on you, Hollis.”
The line went dead.
Wade slowly lowered the phone.
And for the first time in a very long time?—
Wade Hollis felt afraid.
49
Scott Farm — Night
Burke’s truck turned hard onto Scott Valley Road, headlights cutting across rolling pasture and black Angus cattle scattered beneath the trees.
The old Scott farm came into view ahead—the white farmhouse, the wide porch, the red equipment barn, and the fence lines stretching toward the mountains. Home. Maggie Scott stepped out onto the porch before the truck fully stopped, wiping her hands on a dish towel as a smile touched her face automatically. Then she saw them. Saw Burke’s expression. Saw Grant already reaching for the door before the truck stopped rolling, and the smile disappeared instantly.
“What’s wrong?”
