My stomach tightens. “What?”
Poe’s voice goes colder. “Vehicle was flagged on a traffic cam two nights ago. Heading out of town late. No follow-up. Then nothing until… today.”
Salem’s breath catches. “That means he was moving.”
“Or someone was moving him,” I say quietly.
The silence that follows is heavy.
Salem finally turns her head and looks at me. Her eyes are glossy but fierce. “We need to go back,” she says.
“No,” I answer instantly.
Her jaw tightens. “Ozzy.”
“We needed a clue,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “We got one. We do not go back without backup.”
Salem swallows hard, then nods reluctantly.
Poe’s voice cuts in. “Dean needs to know now. Send him the plate and location.”
“I will,” I say. I end the call and immediately message Dean through the secure channel with the warehouse coordinates, the plate, and the registration name.
Then I glance at Salem again. She’s staring at her hands like she can’t decide whether to shake or fight.
I reach over and cover her fist with my hand. “Hey.”
Salem looks up.
My heart slams in my chest at the rawness in her eyes.
“We found him,” she whispers.
I swallow. “We found his car.”
Her voice cracks slightly. “That’s closer than I’ve ever been.”
I squeeze her hand. “We’re going to do this right. We’re going to bring him home if we can.”
Salem nods once, sharp and determined. “And if he knows something, he’s telling us.”
A dark little smile tugs at my mouth. “That’s my girl.”
Salem’s lips part, startled by the words. Then her expression shifts, soft and terrified and warmed by something she doesn’t trust yet. “Okay,” she whispers. “Then what now.”
I keep driving, eyes scanning the road, mind already mapping next steps. “Now,” I say, voice steady, “we get back to Rainmaker, we lock down, and we wait for Maddox to bring the storm.”
Because if Arthur Charles’s car is parked behind a warehouse tied to Goldenbell, the game just changed. And I have a feeling the next move is going to be violent.
TWENTY-THREE
SALEM
The highway unspools beneath us in a dull, hypnotic rhythm. Trees streak past the windows in a smeared gray-green haze, their branches clawing at the edges of my vision before dissolving into nothing. Above, the sky hangs low and heavy, the color of week-old dishwater left forgotten in the sink. Inside the car, the heater drones a steady, toneless lullaby. The tires murmur secrets to the asphalt, soft and constant.
Ozzy’s hands rest on the wheel with practiced calm, knuckles pale but unmoving. Still, I can feel the tension rolling off him in quiet waves. It crackles in the space between our seats like invisible static, prickling the skin on my arms.
My stomach is a cold, hollowed-out place, as though I swallowed dread instead of coffee this morning and it’s been sitting there ever since, heavy and sour. Every breath tastes faintly metallic.