Page 122 of Freeing Lark

Jeeves crouched beside them. “Fresh.”

Hoot stared at the tracks. “How long?”

“Minutes.”

Flint looked toward the street. “Voodoo, take the south side. Eggs, north. Jeeves, with me.”

Hoot started after them. Flint grabbed his arm. “You stay.”

Hoot jerked free. “Like hell.”

“You’re closest to this. That’s exactly why you’re staying here.”

Hoot’s fists clenched. “She’s mine.”

Flint held his gaze. “And we're going to bring her home.”

The words cut through the rage enough for Hoot to think. He pulled out his phone. “Haley.”

“Already tracking.” A pause. Then—“I’ve got the vehicle.”

Hoot’s heart kicked. “What?”

“Black SUV. Temporary plates. It just hit the intersection three blocks east.”

“Send it.”

“I did.”

Hoot looked at Flint. “Spark. Stay here with Hoot.”

“Like hell—” he started, but the team was already moving. Leaving him behind. For the first time since he’d realized Lark was gone, Hoot allowed himself one thought. Hold on, sweetheart. His jaw tightened. I’m coming.

CHAPTER 39

The first thing Lark noticed was the headache. The second was the chair. She opened her eyes slowly and stared at the stained concrete floor beneath her.

Well, this was cliché. Tied to a chair in a creepy garage. Apparently, her life had officially become a bad thriller.

She tested her wrists. Zip ties. Again. Her stomach dropped.

Her hands were secured behind the chair, and another restraint held her ankles together. The plastic bit into the skin still tender from the island.

She swallowed against the dryness in her throat and forced herself to look around.

The room was large and dim, lit by a single fluorescent fixture that flickered overhead. A workbench stretched along one wall, cluttered with tools, grease-stained rags, and several metal containers. Shelves held boxes of unknown contents. An old refrigerator hummed in the corner.

There were two garage doors. One was closed. The other had been partially blocked by stacked crates.

Crates. Her stomach twisted. She recognized the style immediately. Not the exact ones from the island, but similar enough to make her pulse jump.

A faint chemical smell hung in the air beneath the heavier scents of gasoline, oil, and damp concrete.

Wren was beside her. Still unconscious. “Wren?” Nothing.

Lark twisted as much as the restraints allowed. “Wren.” The other woman groaned. “Wren?”

Her eyelids fluttered. “Lark?”