I whirl around, fury blazing through me. “They fucking took her.”
Sanford doesn’t flinch. “Which means they want something, or they have something already planned for her. If we go charging in without being prepared, we could make it worse—for her and for us.”
Atlas lets out a scoff, his tone laced with frustration. “Worse than them taking her? Worse than us sitting around while—” He stops himself, his lips pressing into a tight line. He exhales sharply. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.”
Sanford nods once, his expression unreadable. “We grab what we need—equipment, weapons, anything that gives us an advantage. Then we move. This won’t take long, but we can’t afford mistakes. One wrong move, and we lose her.”
Fish adjusts his radio, his voice cutting through the tension. “Let’s move to the base. Now.”
I don’t hesitate. I don’t stop. We’ll go to the base and I’ll follow their lead. At least they’re letting me come along.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Hopper
During the drive to the abandoned lodge, my hands grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ache. I’m not trembling because of fear—this is something else entirely. It’s anger. Pure, blistering anger, the kind that could tear a man apart from the inside out.
I’ve felt rage before. When my father beat the hell out of us as kids. When I found out Maddie’s mother had betrayed her best friend and planned on destroying her marriage. Even when I realized someone had been stalking Nysa, leaving threats meant to break her spirit.
But this?
This is on another level.
It’s like fire coursing through my veins, an inferno eating away at every shred of patience and logic I have left. I can’t think straight. I can barely breathe. All I see is her—Nysa—taken from me. And if we don’t get to her in time?—
No.
I can’t think like that. I won’t let myself think like that.
Beside me, Atlas is quiet, his jaw set as he checks the GPS on his phone for the hundredth time. Mal sits in the back seat, gun already loaded, his eyes scanning the woods outside like he expects someone to jump out at us. No one says a word, and I’m grateful for it because I’m not sure I can hold it together long enough for conversation.
The hunting lodge finally comes into view, small and isolated, crouched at the base of a hill deep in the woods. There’s no driveway, no proper road—just a beaten-down path carved by hunters, poachers, or men who don’t want to be found.
And right now?
I’m one of those men.
Atlas parks the truck a good hundred yards away, killing the engine as the three of us step out. The air out here feels thicker, quieter, like the forest itself knows something bad is about to happen.
Atlas checks his gun, his movements deliberate. “You good?” he asks, his voice low but steady as he glances at me.
“Am I good?” I let out a humorless laugh, shoving the keys into my pocket. “I’ll be good when I’ve got her back.”
Mal steps up beside me, his expression unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “We stick to the plan. No surprises, no hero bullshit. Got it?”
I shoot him a glare. “Don’t worry about me. I’m getting her out of there.”
He nods once. “Yeah, and we’re making sure you don’t get yourself killed in the process.”
Atlas smirks faintly, but there’s no humor behind it. “It’d be real awkward explaining to Maddie why her dad went full Rambo and didn’t make it back.”
I grunt, checking my weapon. “Let’s go.”
He lifts a finger, then touches his earpiece. Mal nods. I wish I had one of those, but apparently there weren’t enough and I don’t need it. I’m not part of the team. I still want to know how Atlas became part of it. Why he has not one but two guns and knives. Malerick, I get. He’s the sheriff. Him . . . there’s something off, but right now I don’t give a fuck.
We move in silence, keeping low as we approach the lodge. The place is as decrepit as it gets—wooden planks sagging, the roof patched with mismatched shingles, and the air around it feels wrong. Not just unsettling—wrong.
A place that swallows people whole and spits out nothing but stories. My grip tightens on the gun Mal insisted I register. It already is—just not to me.
