With a little coaxing, I slip into the signal’s routing chain. It’s sloppier than it should be. Bryce was never especially sharp, but desperation has pushed him into just enough paranoia to wrap his traffic in a mid-level scrambling loop.
Child’s play.
Once I crack it, the messages spill into view. Sentences are sharp-edged and ugly.
Drop complete.
No leaks.
Package stable.
Package will need calming.
Keep sedated if required.
Move if schedule changes.
My jaw goes rigid. My fingers flex over the mouse, nails biting into my palm. They never say Kimber’s name. Never say girl, daughter, hostage. Always package. Cold. Detached. Like she isn’t a human being.
“They did the same to me,” I whisper to the empty room. “We’ll find you.”
Another message blinks in. Time-stamped from an hour before we grabbed Riker.
Schedule unchanged. Package is compliant.
I grip the edge of the desk so tightly the metal groans under my hands.
Behind me, beyond the door, feet shift again. Ronan’s heavy, deliberate stride. Rowan’s restless pacing. Emerson’s quieter presence—probably braced against the wall, holding himself together through sheer will.
They don’t knock.
They don’t push.
They don’t say my name.
They’re giving me space.
Letting me work.
Letting me breathe.
Despite that, guilt digs its claws in.
The fight in the hallway flashes through my mind—my voice sharp, theirs stunned, all of us bleeding old wounds. I meant every word, but that doesn’t stop the ache settling in my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper under my breath, even though none of them can hear.
I love them too much to pretend our disagreement didn’t cut us all.
Still… I can’t back down.
Another layer of encryption unfolds, revealing GPS trails from the last few weeks. Bryce has been careful. He hops towers, buries his trails, uses dead zones. But people always slip somewhere. A pattern forms along the waterline, repeating every couple of days.
A possible holding site.
I zero in on the coordinates, using satellite view to scan the structures. Warehouses. Storage units. Abandoned shipping yards. Places cops don’t care about and criminals love.
“You’re there,” I whisper, heart pounding.