The questions nagged at Jo, but she pushed them aside. Answers could wait. Right now, they had a target.
They closed the distance in silence. Thirty yards. Twenty.
Shadow’s head came up.
The dog turned, nose working, and Jo knew the exact moment he caught Lucy’s scent. His body went rigid, ears pricked forward, a soft whine building in his throat.
Shaw noticed immediately. She followed Shadow’s gaze, her hand dropping to her weapon?—
And saw them.
“Now,” Sam said.
They rushed her.
Wyatt’s earpiececrackled with sudden noise—footsteps, rustling, what sounded like a scuffle. Something was happening out there. Something that wasn’t part of the plan.
He couldn’t focus on it. The man in front of him was moving now, circling slowly, keeping distance between them.
“The box,” the man said. “Open it.”
“I thought you wanted me to just hand it over.”
“Changed my mind. Open it.”
Wyatt’s mind raced. If he opened the box, the man would see the evidence bag inside—the box cutter, real and damning. And then what? He’d take it and leave? Or was this a test? A way to see if Wyatt was really willing to betray everything he stood for?
“I said open it.” The man’s voice hardened. His hand moved toward his waistband.
Wyatt’s pulse spiked. He knelt slowly, keeping his movements deliberate, and reached for the box.
Wyatt’s fingers had just touched the evidence box when the man moved.
Fast—faster than someone that big should be able to move. He closed the distance in two strides, his boot connecting with the box and sending it skittering across the concrete floor.
“Hey—“ Wyatt started.
A fist caught him in the jaw.
The world spun. Wyatt stumbled backward, tasting blood, his hand going instinctively for his weapon—but the man was already on him, grabbing his wrist, twisting hard.
Pain exploded up Wyatt’s arm. He went down, concrete slamming into his shoulder, the breath driven from his lungs.
The man’s weight settled on his chest, pinning him. A hand closed around his throat.
“The wire,” the man said, almost conversational. “Did you really think we wouldn’t know?”
Wyatt couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision.
Where was Keller?
Where was anyone?
The pressure on his throat increased. The man’s face swam above him, cold and detached.
“Your father sends his regards,” the man said. “He’s disappointed. But he’ll get over it.”
Wyatt’s vision was going dark. His hands clawed uselessly at the arm crushing his windpipe.