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FORTY
ATLAS
“She’s where?” I stare at the tracking app on Jett’s finally-working phone, so torqued skin and muscle tear away from bone.
A blue dot blips on the map, heading out to sea.
Lilah.
Mate.
Mine.
Gone.
Haven’t stopped snarling. The heinous rumble strokes the urge to rip, rend, and fucking end the ones who took her away.
Hunter lifts a gatehouse guard by the throat. “How. How the fuck did you let them take her off compound?”
“D-didn’t—” the guard chokes. “Wasn’t. Girl. Swear!”
“Then how—”
“Like this,” Orion’s shaky whisper draws us to the guardhouse bench, where he sits battered and smoke-streaked, a laptop perched on his knees.
Need to comfort him but I’ve got nothing to give. Only possible comfort is getting Lilah back.
He tilts his screen to show the footage.
Three agents leave the underground garage that went dark. They only knocked out the power to that floor, otherwise, they would’ve tripped an all-hands alert.
Nathan’s crew.
They hold workout duffel bags, but one hangs lower than the rest, stuffed fat and straining the guy’s shoulder.
Carried my girl in a fucking sack.
Walking fast, they cut to the guardhouse and flash badges to exit the compound.
Finn unfolds from a crouch.
He hasn’t said a word.
His eyes say it all.
Pure, abyssal darkness.
Haven’t seen him this goddamned dark since he came back from his own kidnapping with a body count.
“Chopper.” Finn cradles a grenade.
“Now,” I agree. We know what happened. Need to move.
With every flicker, the dot moves farther away.
Hunter tosses the guard. “Move out.”
We barrel for the door, but it flies open.
