“Because it is,” Nick says quietly.
Still, Maverick slowly pulls the door open as we all move to his side. The interior is empty. No trash, no tools, no personal items or smells. Nothing. Like it’s never been used. Cole leans down, scanning the floorboards.
“Not even dirt,” he mutters.
A van that’s supposedly been kidnapping and running people to god knows where shouldn’t look as if it’s just rolled off the showroom floor. Cole reaches toward the center console, then stops short.
“Don’t.”
I don't raise my voice, but he freezes anyway feeling the tension laced in my tone.
“This wasn’t dumped,” I continue, stepping closer. “It was placed.”
Nick nods once. “Someone wanted us to find it.”
Maverick straightens. “Question is why now?”
My eyes scan the lot. It’s too public, too open, too visible. And yet–nobody’s watching. At least no one obvious.
A slow pressure builds behind my ribs.
“Nick, that cop you were working on…he yours now?” Maverick asks. Nick nods. “Let’s get him over here to secure thisthing. I’ll have Slater come down to do a full sweep before he gets here.”
Both men pull out their phones and step away from the vehicle. Cole glances up at me.
“You think it’s wired?”
I don’t answer, and Elias shrugs. The real problem isn’t what may or may not be inside of it. It’s what finding it means. Someone is fucking with us.
If they’re done hiding, they may be gearing up to make a move. And we just stepped exactly where they wanted us.
I drag my gaze from the van to the treeline bordering the lot. The shadows are wrong. Everything around us is still, the kind of still that feels staged.
“Why would they bring it back?” Cole asks, straightening slowly.
“To get us here,” I say, my jaw ticking.
Nick ends his call first, slipping his phone back into his pocket and rejoining us.
“He’s on his way. Ten minutes.”
Maverick nods but doesn’t relax.
“Slater?” Elias asks.
“Already moving.”
Good. I don’t like this. Not the timing. Not the presentation. And definitely not the silence. No rush job, no panic and no attempt to hide it. Just delivered, like a message.
“You think this is a flex?” Cole says, stepping closer to me.
“No,” I say. A flex is loud. This is quiet and intentional. Controlled. My eyes move over the windshield again. No smear marks from the wipers, no streaks. Nothing disturbed. Even the tires are clean, which is out of place for Oregon in the spring. Even the cleanest cars have some mud on them somewhere. Someone wiped this down, inside and out. And very recently.
“Someone’s confident,” Nick murmurs.
“Or bored,” Mav adds.
Neither option sits well.
