We’re gathered in my house—Atlas, Malerick, and the two undercover agents, Fish and Sanford. The tension in the room is suffocating, a silent indictment of how badly we screwed this up.
No one looks at me. Not because they don’t want to, but because they don’t know what to say.
Because this shouldn’t have happened.
But it did.
At least they didn’t take Maddie. That thought repeats like a fragile lifeline in my mind. I managed to grab her just in time, but the relief is fleeting, overwhelmed by the gut-wrenching fact that I couldn’t get to Nysa fast enough. That I failed her.
Atlas leans over the table, his hands braced as though he’s trying to physically hold himself back. His jaw is set so tight I wonder if he’s trying to keep it from shattering. “Letting almost everyone leave for the weekend was a bad idea,” he snaps, his glare locked on Fish. “Didn’t I say that?”
Fish doesn’t back down. He matches Atlas’s glare with one of his own, his voice rough. “We’ve got families. Most of the team had important shit to handle. And for the record? I did mention festivals are boring as hell.”
“Not the point, Fish,” Sanford cuts in, his tone measured but taut. “We need to focus on the now. Everyone’s flying back, but Seattle’s a long way out. We know what happens when we don’t act fast.”
I don’t. Not fully, anyway. But from the look in his eyes, I don’t want to.
“We should’ve seen this coming,” Malerick mutters, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to physically knead the guilt away. “I . . . fuck.”
His words hang between us like a lead weight, pressing on everything.
And as much as I know he’s right, hearing it out loud makes something snap inside me. My hands clench into fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. It’s either that or put my fist through the wall.
“Tell me something I don’t fucking know,” I growl, my voice cutting through the room like a whip. “I don’t need a postmortem. I need a plan. How are we going to get her back—unharmed?”
Silence falls over the room, thick and suffocating. Their eyes dart around, looking for someone else to speak first.
But no one does.
Because we’re all thinking the same thing: we don’t know what the hell we’re walking into.
And I don’t give a damn.
Whatever it takes, I’m getting her back.
Mal’s gaze snaps to mine, but he doesn’t tell me to calm down. He knows better.
Sanford, the taller of the two agents, clears his throat, the sound cutting through the tension. “We thought there was a mole on the team. That’s why we stayed behind.” His voice is measured, deliberate, like he knows what he’s about to say will only make things worse. “But there isn’t.”
Atlas’s eyes narrow. “What the hell are you saying?”
Sanford exhales, running a hand down his face. “It’s not a mole. It’s the hotel.”
Malerick straightens, his jaw tightening. “Explain.”
Sanford jerks his chin toward Fish. “Tell them what you told us.”
Fish shifts uneasily, his shoulders tense. “I’ve been watching the security rotation at the hotel where most of the team’s been staying. Started noticing some weird shit—staff changes, odd tip-offs, phone calls to numbers that aren’t in the records.”
My stomach knots. I don’t need him to spell it out to know where this is heading.
“They weren’t getting information from the sheriff’s department or our agents,” Fish continues, his voice lower now, his words deliberate. “They were getting it from the hotel staff. Small towns like this are better than any state-of-the-art surveillance equipment. They’re their own network. Someone’s been paying the staff. Probably through a third party. We don’t have a name yet.”
Atlas lets out a low, humorless laugh, one that sends a chill through the room. “So they sold us out for a paycheck.”
Sanford nods. “They knew who was staying, who was leaving, when security would be at its weakest. They had everyone in town pegged, down to the last damn detail.”
And they knew exactly when to take her.
