“Maybe,” Kane concedes. “Or maybe she’s the daughter of someone important. Someone who would pay to get her back.”
“But Tomas kept her instead?” That doesn’t align with the limited impression I’ve formed of Kane’s biological father.
“We don’t know,” Rory says, taking a sharp turn onto an even narrower road. “That’s what we’re hoping to find out at the castle. If Tomas left another clue, or if—” He cuts himself off, glancing at Kane.
“If what?” I ask.
“If he’s there,” Kane finishes quietly. “If this whole treasure hunt has been leading us to him all along.”
The possibility hangs in the air between us. I watch Kane’s profile, trying to gauge how he feelsabout potentially meeting the father he never knew was his. His expression is carefully blank, but there’s tension in the set of his shoulders, in the way his fingers drum against his thigh.
“And what would that mean?” I ask carefully. “If he is there?”
Kane’s laugh is short and humorless. “Good question. I haven’t decided if I want to hug him or punch him.”
“Both are an option,” Rory suggests helpfully.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Kane says, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips now.
We drive in silence for a while, the landscape gradually changing as we head north. The lush green fields give way to rougher terrain, and the villages we pass through become smaller, more isolated. The sky darkens as evening approaches, and gathering clouds promise rain.
My phone buzzes again—Mark, undoubtedly—but I ignore it. Whatever crisis he’s having can wait. Right now, I’m on my way to an abandoned castle, a potentially haunted castle. Mark's drama seems positively mundane in comparison.
“We’re about an hour out,” Rory announces, checking the GPS on his phone. “Declan and the others should be approaching from the east.”
His phone rings just as he says it. He connects the call through the Bluetooth system of the SUV.
“How’s it going?” Declan asks.
“All good, clear sailing so far,” Rory responds. “How about you?”
“So far so good— Oh shit. We’ve got a tail. I gotta let you go.”
The line goes dead, and we drive on in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
Declan
“Kat, how many are in the car?” I ask as I take a sharp right around the country road.
She produces a set of binoculars from her purse, then turns in her seat and looks out the back window. “Ah, from what I can see, at least three. One is holding a shotgun.”
“Fuck,” I mutter as I lean forward, grabbing the Glock from my waistband. I hold it over my shoulder and pass it to her. “Here. Safety is on.”
I look over at Wren. The worry on her face kills me, and I want nothing more than to take her away from this life. I reach over and take hold of her hand. She grips my mine tightly in hers as she reaches into her purse with her other hand and produces an identical Glock to mine. She gives me a watery smile. “You’re a better shot than me, and I’m a better getaway driver. Switch me spots.”
I nod and unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Okay, on the count of three,” I said, one hand gripping the wheel. “One, two—”
A bullet whistled through the rear window, spraying glass across the back seat.
“Screw three!” I yanked the wheel hard right, forcing our pursuers to swerve. At eighty miles an hour, Wren and I played the most dangerous musical chairs ever: she slid under me while I half-jumped over the console, my knee smashing into the gearshift.
“Jesus Christ!” I yelped, my voice higher than I ever knew possible. “My balls!”
“Focus, Declan!” Kat shouted from the back, leaning out the passenger window with my Glock. She fired two shots, and the trailing Suburban veered wildly.
Wren handled the wheel like a pro, carving sharp angles that made my stomach lurch. “Plan?” she asked, eyes locked on the road.
