My jaw tightened.
“They moved her fast,” Marcello added.“No cameras caught anything useful.Van’s untraceable.”
“Machado,” I said.
Every head turned my way.
“It has to be,” I continued, pacing once, already pulling my phone out, already dialing numbers.“He’s the only one with the reach, the motive?—”
“He’s not on any Italian manifests,” Raze cut in.
I stilled.
“What?”
“No flights.No entries.Nothing.”
My pulse spiked.
“Then where the fuck is he?”I barked.
The minutes stretched,tense and ugly.Every second that passed felt like Tone was slipping further out of reach, and my sanity was quickly thinning.
We strategized well into the afternoon, working every contact between us.It was only when one of my men stepped forward, his breath tight, phone in hand, that I looked up from my phone.
“We’ve got something.”
I moved before he could finish, snatching the phone from him, scanning the screen.
“Malta,” he said.
My eyes sharpened.
“What’s in Malta?”
“Malta,” he repeated.“Machado flew in on a private jet two days ago.”
A slow, vicious smile pulled at my mouth.
“Currently, no one knows where he is,” the man added.“He’s off the grid.”
“What business does he have in Malta?”I demanded.
“None,” he said.“No ties.No operations.He has no valid reason to be there.”
“That’s where we look,” I said into the room.“That’s where she is.”
The words came out certain, absolute.Because if I were him, that’s exactly what I’d do.I’d move her off the mainland, create distance and buy myself some time.Before I flew her out of Malta, where no-one would be looking.
“Find out when that jet leaves,” I ordered.
I turned to Atlas as my men moved.
“We need to get to Malta before that plane takes off.”
His gaze held mine.Sharp.Assessing.
“I guarantee you,” I continued, stepping closer, every word carved from certainty, “she’ll be on that plane.”
