Page 5 of Beautiful Scars: Unshakeable (The Beautiful Scars Duet #2)
Chapter Four
Zane
I help Rex out of the car, his face tight with pain despite the medication.
"You good?"
He nods, cradling his casted arm. "I'm fine, Z. Get back there and find something out."
The drive back to the hospital takes fifteen minutes.
I park my black Charger behind a maintenance shed, positioning it for the best view of the loading dock while still staying hidden in the shadows.
The hospital's service entrance stretches before me.
Harsh overheard streetlamps create pools of bright white on the concrete.
My fingers drum against the steering wheel as I check my watch. 11:55 PM. The night air is cool and heavy, broken only by the distant sound of ambulance sirens.
Movement catches my eye and I bring the binoculars up. The security guard I recognize from earlier emerges first, checking the area. The social worker follows, guiding two women—the brunette and the blonde I recognize from the ER. Their steps are hesitant but willing.
The brunette hugs herself tight. She's wearing a set of non-descript hospital scrubs. Her eyes dart around nervously, but the social worker keeps a reassuring hand on her shoulder. The blonde clutches a small bag to her chest, her long hair damp around her shoulders.
11:58 PM.
The security guard positions himself near the door.
It looks like a natural move, but now, there's no way back inside unless it's through him.
They wait with the patience and confidence of people who've done this before.
My hand tightens on the wheel as I think about how many women they've potentially "helped".
The soft hum of an engine breaks the silence. A white passenger van with heavily tinted windows glides up to the loading dock, its headlights off. Careful.
The social worker steps forward, all warm smiles and gentle encouragement. The brunette moves first, wrapping her arms around the woman in a grateful embrace. The blonde follows suit, whispering what looks like "thank you" before they both climb into the van.
No plates on the van. Not even temporary ones. The vehicle idles smoothly, waiting until the women are settled before pulling away with the same careful precision it arrived with. The security guard and social worker watch it disappear before heading back inside, their job done.
I pull out my phone, dialing Colt.
"They just moved two women," I report, keeping my voice low despite being alone. "White passenger van, no plates. They've clearly done this before."
"Shit." Colt's voice crackles through the speaker. "Wolf's still working on getting us into the database. It's a heavy-duty system."
"Of course it is." I watch as the loading dock returns to its innocent facade.
"I'll push Wolf. What's your next move?"
My jaw clenches as I start the engine. The urge to follow the van wars with the need to maintain surveillance here and try to discover more about the process. But, I know better than to risk exposing myself. I've already been seen here tonight.
This operation seems too well-organized, too careful. One wrong move could send them underground, taking any chance of finding the connection, if any, to Sunny with them.
"Screw it." I end the call with Colt and pull out after the van, keeping plenty of distance between us. My headlights stay off until we hit the main road, blending with sparse late-night traffic.
The van takes a winding path through Oak Valley's industrial district, past shuttered warehouses and empty parking lots.
Every turn is deliberate, designed to expose anyone tailing them.
I hang back, using skills honed from years of surveillance work.
When they cut through a shopping center, I parallel them on the service road instead of following directly.
The cityscape shifts gradually. Broken streetlights give way to decorative lampposts. Crumbling sidewalks transform into manicured lawns. The van slows as we enter Valley Heights—where old money lives behind pristine hedges and private security patrols.
My grip tightens on the wheel when the van turns onto Maple Grove Drive. The houses here start at seven figures, each set back from the road behind gates and cameras.
It's unusual, but perfect cover for an operation like this. Who'd question a transition house in a neighborhood like this where discretion is currency?
The van slows in front of a sprawling colonial with a circular drive.
The wrought iron gates swing open smoothly, security cameras tracking the vehicle's approach.
I cruise past, noting the subtle details that most would miss—motion sensors disguised as landscape lighting, reinforced non-reflective windows behind delicate appearing scrollwork, sight lines cleared of any visual obstructions.
I pull onto a side street and kill the engine, going over the obvious security measures. The setup mirrors our own house protocols, but elevated. Multiple layers, each designed to look less than what they are to anyone who doesn't know what they're looking at.
"Hiding in plain sight," I mutter, admiring the elegance of it. Rich neighborhood with high security already the accepted standard. A perfect sanctuary for women fleeing dangerous men—or at least, that's how it would appear to someone desperate for safety.
My phone buzzes. Colt.
"You follow them?"
"Yeah. Got an address in Valley Heights. Place is locked down tight—professional security setup disguised as standard rich person paranoia.
"Makes sense," Colt says. "Perfect cover for keeping women 'safe' from abusive exes. No one questions tight security in that kind of neighborhood."
"Exactly." I start the car, mind already mapping the compound's weaknesses. "I'm going to text you the exact address. Get one of the guys started on digging into property records, utility bills, anything connected to this address. See if there's a paper trail or anything else leading to Garrett."
"On it. You heading back?"
"Yeah. Gimme twenty."
I take a different route back, ensuring I'm not followed.
The rage builds in my chest, but I force it down. Getting angry won't help find her. We need precision. Strategy. Garrett is smarter than we've given him credit for. A lot smarter.
Every part of this is deliberate—from the moment those women stepped into the ER to the second those gates closed behind them. This isn’t some sloppy backroom deal. This is a machine.
The house lights are still on when I get back. Through the window, I can see Colt at the kitchen table, surrounded by laptops and stacks of paper. Time to get to work. We’re close. And if this is the machine that took her? I’ll tear it apart, gear by gear.