Reaper looked over at him. “Where?”
Ghost’s stomach twisted slowly. No fucking way. He stared at the slanted lettering again and at the small symbol drawn beneath the message—three slashes through a circle, but the middle curve was slightly crooked, and recognition slammed into him instantly.
“Eli,” Ghost breathed.
Buck went still. “What did you just say?”
Ghost looked up slowly. “That’s Eli Mercer’s handwriting.” The room fell silent. Reaper cursed viciously under his breath, and Buck’s face hardened into something terrifying.
Eli Mercer was a former King’s Prospect. He had disappeared six months ago after getting caught skimming money from southern supply runs. Buck had voted against killing him back then, figuring exile was punishment enough. Apparently, that mercy came back to bite them in the ass.
“He sold us out,” Reaper growled.
Ghost nodded grimly. “Looks that way.” Buck walked toward the shattered window slowly, snow blowing through the broken glass around him. Ghost knew that posture, and he knew the silence. Buck was about three seconds away from becoming genuinely dangerous.
“She was here alone,” Buck said quietly. Ghost swallowed hard. The thought hit like a knife to his chest. The idea of Wren in the dark, fighting for her life, while possibly calling for them. Christ, she had to be terrified.
Ghost dragged a hand through his hair violently. “There’s blood.” Buck spun instantly, and Ghost pointed toward the edge of the broken window frame. There were tiny smears of blood on the wood. It wasn’t much but enough to worry him. Buck crossed the room fast and touched the stain with two fingers. When he looked back up at Ghost, murder lived behind his eyes.
“She fought them,” Buck growled.
“Of course she did,” Ghost said softly.
Buck laughed once without humor. “Stubborn little thing.” The affection in the words nearly gutted Ghost because Buck already loved her. Maybe neither of them had said it yet, but Ghost heard it anyway, and deep down, he knew he was falling for her, too.
Reaper stepped toward them carefully. “What’s the play?”
Buck’s attention never left the bloodstain near the window. “They want maps.”
“We don’t have the full routes documented,” Reaper pointed out.
Ghost’s stomach tightened suddenly. “Yes, we do.” Both men looked at him, and Ghost cursed under his breath. “Wren’s research,” he said as though that would explain everything. “She’s had the maps this whole time and didn’t know it.”
Buck frowned, and Ghost moved toward the overturned desk and started ripping through scattered papers. “Her wolf collar tracking logs.” He looked up grimly. “She mapped movement patterns already. She just didn’t realize what she was mapping.”
Reaper went pale. “Jesus.”
Ghost found the folder half-hidden beneath the dresser. It was empty. Fuck. “They took it,” he muttered. Buck closed his eyes briefly because he knew that meant that the Vultures now had proof of every trafficking corridor hidden through protected land. And Wren was the only person smart enough to fully decode it.
Buck turned slowly toward Ghost. “We end this tomorrow.” It wasn’t a question but a promise. Ghost nodded immediately. He felt no fear or hesitation because there wasn’t a version of this story where they let Wren disappear into the north. Not after tonight, and not after she reached for both of them like they were worth trusting.
Buck grabbed Ghost suddenly and yanked him close enough that their foreheads nearly touched. Ghost blinked once in surprise. “Bring her back with me,” Buck said roughly. Emotion cracked through the words hard enough to hurt, and Ghost’s chest tightened painfully.
“Brother—” he whispered.
“I mean it.” Buck’s voice dropped lower. “Whatever happens tomorrow, we bring her home.”
Ghost stared at him for half a heartbeat, and then he nodded. “Together.” Buck exhaled shakily, and before Ghost could think better of it, he grabbed the back of Buck’s neck and kissed him—hard and desperate. All fear and anger and grief tangled together. Buck froze for a second before kissing him back just as fiercely. Reaper made a deeply uncomfortable sound somewhere near the door, but neither of them cared because Wren was out there somewhere, frightened and alone, and both of them had finally realized they’d burn the world down to get her back.
Wren
The first thing Wren noticed when she woke up was the smell. Wherever she was smelled like gasoline, blood, and dirt. Pain hit her a second later. A sharp ache throbbed behind her eyes while cold bit through her wrists where rough zip ties cut into her skin. She sucked in a shaky breath and immediately regretted it when nausea rolled through her stomach.
“Easy there.” The unfamiliar male voice snapped her fully awake. Wren’s eyes flew open, and darkness surrounded her. It wasn’t complete darkness—faint yellow light flickered somewhere nearby—but it was enough to make panic slam into her chest instantly.
She tried to sit up too quickly and hit metal behind her with a painful clang. She realized that she was in a cage, and her breathing sped up as reality crashed back piece by piece. Flashes of being in the room upstairs, the power cutting out, and hands grabbing her plagued her memories from earlier. She also remembered fighting and biting someone hard enough to taste blood before being hit on the back of the head. Now, she was apparently sitting in a cage.
“Well,” the voice drawled again. “You’re prettier awake.” Wren forced herself to focus on the man who sat across from her in a rusted folding chair, boots kicked up casually on an old crate. He looked like he was in his late thirties, maybe. He had a scruffy beard and mean eyes. He was wearing a heavy jacket. And behind him was a warehouse. Fear curled viciously through her stomach.
