Emerson stands behind me now, hand resting at the curve of my waist. “So, what’s the play, baby?”
I straighten, spine locking into place.
“We dig deeper for two hours,” I say. “Cameras. Shipments. Anything we can scrape together. Enough to give us a fighting chance, but not enough to slow us down.”
Rowan nods. “Two hours. And if we find nothing?”
“Then we go anyway,” I answer without hesitation. “We move either way. Tonight.”
A beat of silence.
Then Ronan pushes back from his chair. “Okay then. Let’s get to work.”
The boys fan out instantly, bodies alive with purpose, a spark of ruthless determination lighting each gaze.
As I turn back to the computer, Bryce’s face staring at us from the frozen frame, a cold certainty settles deep inside me.
He’s out of time.
We’re coming.
Chapter Twelve
Emerson
Two hours.
That was the agreement.
Two hours of gathering everything we could before we charged a building that might hold my sister… or might hold nothing but false hope.
The war room feels different tonight. Suffocating. Electric. Like the walls themselves know what’s at stake. Berk works in silence, bathed in the harsh blue glow of her screens, fingers moving so fast I can barely track them. Ronan is beside her, matching her speed, jaw locked tight, a muscle ticking every time a dead end taunts him.
Rowan can’t stop moving. He paces a rut into the carpet behind us, back and forth, back and forth, like momentum alone might summon answers.
Me? I’m on every CCTV, every comm intercept, every scrap of data we hijacked. My leg bounces, my hands shake—not from fear, but fury. My baby sister is somewhere in the dark with the same assholes who stole Berk from us years ago. The same father who smirked as he carved pieces out of the people I love.
Now, Bryce fucking Blackthorne—dear old dad—thinks he can actually hide from us?
Not a fucking chance.
Berk finally breaks the silence.
“I got something.”
Her voice slices through the room. Controlled. Focused. But there’s a tremor buried under it that only someone who loves her would hear.
Rowan stops pacing mid-stride. Ronan leans in. I turn in my chair.
She enlarges a file—digital blueprints—and rotates them.
“The warehouse Bryce pinged from.” Her mouth curves bitterly, zooming in again. “The ground floor is business. Storage, loading bays, staging, and a small office overlooking everything. Three entrances. Two are side exits. No cameras.”
I feel my pulse kick. “Means we can ghost in.”
She nods. “Exactly.” Then she scrolls upward. “And upstairs… is a personal residence.”
Something cold rips down my spine.