Page 63

Oliver

T he private airstrip was tucked into the hills like it had something to hide.

Perfect.

We touched down just after dusk—low light, no chatter. Cyclone and I moved fast, light gear only, with backup support coming in from the coast if things went sideways.

We didn’t plan for sideways.

We planned for straight through.

As soon as the wheels hit the tarmac, Cyclone handed me a file folder thick with redacted lines and satellite maps.

“This is the facility,” he said, pointing. “Privately owned, minimal staff, allegedly for ‘elite athlete recovery, and training.”

“Looks more like a front.”

He nodded. “Because it is, most of the time.”

I scanned the maps. “And Emery?”

“Last ping from her phone was ninety-six hours ago near this loading dock. No exit logs. No return flight. She vanished from inside the perimeter.”

I felt my jaw tighten.

She hadn’t just been taken.

She’d been ghosted.

Deliberately.

Professionally.

This meant that whoever was behind it wasn’t just after money. They wanted her gone. Why?

And that made this personal.

“We’re going in clean,” Cyclone said. “No full-force entry yet. We blend. Ask questions. Make noise if we have to. But we keep it tight.”

I nodded, already scanning for the path in—and the quickest way out if it all burned down.

“What do we know about her condition?”

Cyclone looked at me.

“She fought. Hard.”

Good.

I didn’t want to rescue someone who broke under pressure.

I wanted to rescue someone who held out long enough for us to reach her.

Someone who’d make them regret ever laying a hand on her.

And judging by the faint grin on Cyclone’s face as he passed me a radio and a knife, he knew exactly what I was thinking.

We were going to find Emery Blake.

And God help the men who stood in our way.