Page 14

I stand, the movement helping to focus my thoughts. Moving to the central holographic display, I feel the eyes of the team on me. Aria Holbrook’s face hovers there, alongside what little we know about her kidnappers.
“We’re missing something,” I mutter, more to myself than the team. “This isn’t a random grab-and-snatch. Too long without a ransom demand. I don’t know Holbrook, but something about this feels off. The Night Pack doesn’t waste resources. They wouldn’t have grabbed Ember along with Aria. Too much risk.”
“What do you mean?” Mac asks.
“Why drag her into the van when they could’ve kicked her to the curb.” I run a hand down my face. “She weighs, what? A buck ten at most? Those men could’ve hauled her from the scruffof her neck and tossed her like a sack of potatoes. Instead, they drag her into the van? That feels wasteful and complicated.”
“Agreed,” Jenny says, her voice tight with frustration. “But what’s the angle? Ransom for Aria, at least, that’s the working theory. Human trafficking for Ember?”
I shake my head, feeling the tension knotting at the base of my skull. “Maybe both. Maybe neither. We need to dig deeper into Aria’s background and Ember Winters. What’s her connection?”
“Wrong place, wrong time?” Mac suggests, his deep voice rumbling through the cabin. “I firmly believe in keeping it simple.”
“Maybe,” I say, but something nags at me, an itch I can’t quite scratch. “Or maybe not. She’s a liability to them now. Run a deep background on her, Mitzy. Foster care records, juvie, everything.”
“On it,” she says, fingers already flying again, the staccato of keystrokes filling the air.
A loud yawn breaks the tension. We all turn to see Charlene—Charlie—stretching languidly in her seat. Her blonde ponytail swings as she rolls her neck, working out the kinks.
“Sorry.” She flashes a megawatt smile that seems out of place given our grim mission. “Long night.”
Brett, seated next to her, smirks. “Yeah, I heard. The two of you kept me up all night.”
Jon, on Charlie’s other side, has the decency to look slightly embarrassed, but not Charlie. The dynamics between the three of them are—complicated, to say the least.
“Children, please,” Jenny says, but her voice holds a hint of amusement. “Focus.”
Charlie leans forward, all business now despite her bubbly exterior. “What if we’re thinking about this all wrong? Instead of following the van, why don’t we track where it came from?”
Mitzy’s eyes light up. “Brilliant. If we can pinpoint their starting location, we might be able to identify other properties they own or frequent.”
I nod, feeling a spark of hope. “Do it. And someone get me more coffee. It’s going to be a long flight.”
“What happened to you?” Mitzy gives me a look. “Your feet don’t work? Get up and get it yourself.”
“Whatever.” I shake my head, then dutifully head to the back of the plane where the galley sits.
Hours blur together, marked by the steady hum of the engines and the ebb and flow of conversation. Lead after lead fizzles out. The tension in the cabin ratchets up with each dead end, pressing against my skin like a physical thing.
“Dammit.” Mitzy slams her fist on the armrest, the impact reverberating through the cabin. “How the hell did they just disappear?”
I pace the length of the jet, mind racing. There’s a pattern here. There has to be. The carpet muffles my footsteps, but the vibrations of the engines thrum through the floor, a constant reminder of our race against time.
“Mitzy,” I call out, my voice rough from too much coffee and too little sleep. “Show me the van’s route again. All of it, even the fragments.”
The map springs to life, a spiderweb of possible paths crisscrossing the city. The glowing lines hurt my eyes, but I force myself to focus.
“Now overlay that with known Night Pack territories.”
Colors bloom across the display. Red for confirmed hideouts, yellow for suspected areas of operation. The effect is like a bruise spreading across the face of the city.
“Son of a bitch,” I breathe, the realization hitting me like a punch to the gut.
Jenny’s at my side in an instant, her presence a steady anchor. “What do you see?”
I point to a section of the map, my finger leaving a faint smudge on the glossy surface. “They’re not just dodging cameras—they’re sticking to a deliberate path. See? They’re skirting the edges of their territory, never crossing the boundary, but never fully leaving it either.”
Mac leans in. His bulk casts a shadow over the display. His eyes narrow, years of street experience coming into play. “A test run? Making sure the coast is clear before bringing in the big fish?”