The line went quiet. For several seconds, Charlotte didn’t say a word.
When she finally spoke again, her voice was colder, controlled. “That was a misunderstanding,” Charlotte spat out.
Avery’s pulse jumped. She didn’t need to see Charlotte’s face to know she’d struck a nerve. “Right,” Avery murmured.
Charlotte’s voice sharpened again, louder this time. “If you have my son, you’re going to pay. And you’ll pay hard.”
The line went dead.
Avery stared at the screen for a moment before turning to Jackson. “Charlotte definitely didn’t want to discuss that slap.”
Jackson’s brow furrowed. “No, but I still believe it could’ve been staged,” he said. “Charlotte’s smart enough to pull something like that if she thought it would make her look like the victim.”
Yes, she could, and the thought settled over Avery like a weight she couldn’t shake.
Before anyone could say another word, one of the techs called out, “Another incoming call.”
Avery’s pulse spiked, and the sickening dread raced through her.
“Put it through,” Noah instructed.
The altered voice filled the room again, low and distorted. “I trust you’ve had time to think, Avery.”
Her throat went dry. “I’m listening.”
“Good,” the voice said. “You’ll come alone. Abandoned rest stop off County Road 72. South entrance. One hour.”
Avery knew that exact spot. Isolated and creepy. “How do I know you’ll release the hostages?”
“You’ll know when we decide you’ve earned it.”
Static crackled, then the line went silent.
Noah looked at the techs. “Trace it.”
Isla was already typing, eyes fixed on the monitors. Avery’s heart hammered in her chest as she turned toward Jackson.
One hour.
That was all they had.
Chapter Thirteen
Jackson cursed under his breath. An hour wasn’t much time, but in some ways it felt like an eternity, especially for the hostages. Every second that ticked by could mean another beating or worse.
Across the room, Isla was already moving. “I’ll print the mask,” she said, her voice calm but brisk. “Give me five minutes to get ready.” She grabbed her tablet and headed for the door.
On one of the wall monitors, the map of the meeting site came up. A rundown rest stop off County Road 72. Old picnic tables, cracked asphalt, brush and mesquite growing wild around it. He’d driven past the place a few times. It was isolated. Too perfect.
Noah stood at the center of the room, studying the screen. “The Brotherhood’s almost certainly already there,” he said. “In place, waiting.”
“Then where are the hostages?” Jackson asked.
One of the techs, a younger guy with short dark hair, frowned at his monitor. “That’s the thing. The rest stop doesn’t match anything we saw in the background of those images.”
“Could the images have been staged?” Jackson asked.
“Maybe,” the tech admitted. “Or the hostages were moved.” He zoomed out on a digital map. “I’ll start looking for nearby locations. Old barns, sheds, anything abandoned within a ten-mile radius.”