Seth slams his hand into the wall. “Fuck.”
I grab his arm before he can move again. “Hey. Hey. We can track them.”
He nods once, jaw tight and eyes already focused. His breathing is shallow, and his stare is locked on the screen.
“They won’t get far. I’m not losing them, not after everything.”
The tracker pings sharply on the screen.
Travis is already pulling up the live signal. Seth grabs a gun off the rack by the hall closet, checks it once, then shoves extra ammo into his pocket. I grab the keys and my phone, hands moving on muscle memory because my mind is too loud.
The sky is still dark when we climb into the Jeep. Seth drives without hesitation, hands tight on the wheel, shoulders set like he is bracing for impact. I watch the tracker like it might disappear if I blink. They are fifteen miles ahead of us, moving west.
The tracker leads us to a small grocery store just off the highway. The building looks worn down and half-forgotten, which makes sense because Elise wouldn’t choose a crowded store with cameras on every corner. She would choose somewhere quiet, somewhere that feels invisible.
Seth turns into the lot and pulls into the far corner without speaking, angling the Jeep so he can see the entrance clearly. The engine ticks as it cools. One of his hands rests on his thigh. The other looks empty, but I know the gun is within reach.
“They’re inside,” I say, watching the van parked crooked near the side of the building.
He nods once. “I see it.”
“I’ll go in.”
His eyes meet mine. “Two minutes. If something feels off, you get out.”
I nod and step out and cross the lot without hesitation. The automatic doors stall before sliding open. Inside, the air smells old and sour, like refrigerators that haven’t been serviced in years. The tile is cracked. The fluorescent lights hum overhead.
An older man sits behind the counter with a crossword book open in front of him. He glances at me once, then back at the page like he has seen every kind of trouble and decided none of it is his business. A scratched shotgun is mounted beneath the counter, within reach.
I spot Elise and Ryan near the snack aisle with a basket between them. A couple canned things. A bag of chips. A jar of peanut butter. Elise scans the aisles, shoulders tight, eyes moving. Ryan keeps grabbing whatever he can reach and dropping it into the basket without thinking.
Relief hits hard enough to make my vision blur for a second.
“Elise,” I say carefully. “Come on, we need to go.”
Ryan looks relieved. Elise doesn’t. Her jaw locks, her whole body going rigid like she has already decided I’m the problem she needs to get away from.
Then she runs.
“Help me!” she shouts as she sprints toward the counter. “This is the woman who kidnapped me!”
The clerk startles, knocking his stool back as he pushes to his feet. My stomach drops, not because of what she said, but because of what it could trigger. Police. FBI. Grant. A call that puts our faces on a screen. A mistake we don’t get to fix.
The front window explodes inward.
The clerk’s head snaps back as a bullet tears through it. He collapses instantly, blood spraying across the counter and the crossword book.
Elise screams.
“Get down now!” I shout.
Automatic fire rips through the storefront. Glass and shelves explode around us. The lights stutter, buzzing harder, and the noise drills straight into my skull.
I grab Ryan and shove him behind an aisle endcap. “Stay down. Both of you. Don't move.”
Elise drops beside him this time without arguing. Her hands clamp over his shoulders, pulling him down with her. It takes a dead man for her to listen.
Boots hit the tile inside the store.
