Page 158 of Found by the Pack

The men stare at us like we’re intruders. There are no honorable looks on their faces—only hunger and contempt—and for a fraction of a breath I let myself see them for what they truly are: predators who thought they could move through our town like they own the streets.

We close. The world narrows to boots and hands and the clump of bodies, to the sound of orders and the dull thunk of a door being banged. I move like someone who has been made from force and habit.

If it’s a fight they want, then we’ll make it one.

When Boone’s voice cuts over my radio, a sharp and satisfied “We’ve got them,” I let out the smallest, strangled laugh.

It’s not victory. Not yet. But the net is tightening. The whole town is a chorus of people who won’t let one of us be taken without payment.

Jake calls back ten minutes later, voice ragged with relief and exhaustion. “Ronan’s holding the highway. The state troopers are inbound. We’ll push until we get her back.”

“Tell the troopers to be ready to move on my mark,” I say, lungs burning and the world still a hurricane. “We’re not done.”

He doesn’t argue. “Get her home, Gabe. Bring her back.”

I tuck the phone into my chest pocket, and for the first time since the day started falling apart, I allow myself the dangerous, reckless thought that we might actually make it through this. That we might pull her out of the dark and put her back where she belongs.

Then I drive faster.

CHAPTER 42

Sadie

I’m pressed into the back seat, the truck bouncing over broken asphalt, and every jolt sends a lurch of panic through my chest. My hands are tied, wrists chafing raw against the rough rope.

My mouth is dry. My throat aches from screaming, but they didn’t care. None of them did. The metal tang of blood—Shepard’s, maybe theirs—hangs in the air like a cruel perfume.

I can hear them up front, voices low, clipped, careful, but sharp. The engine hums like a predator’s growl. Every curve makes me brace my shoulders against the seat, heart hammering so hard I’m sure they can hear it.

I want to scream again, to punch, to fight, but I can’t. Not yet. Not now.

“Help me,” I whisper under my breath, tasting the word like it’s a lifeline. Gabe. He has to know. He has to be coming. He has to.

I close my eyes and try to hold onto that thought, the only thing keeping me from sliding entirely into panic. Images flash: the fire consuming Driftwood, Shepard’s bloodied face.

And then me, screaming, flailing, a woman trapped in the bed of a truck like prey in a cage.

It’s dark in the truck. I’ve been away from them so long that I’m surprised how difficult it is to tell who’s who.

Under any other circumstances, I would smile.

One of them leans back, muttering something I can’t make out. Another laughs, low and cruel. My stomach knots.

I force my eyes open, peeking through the small slit in the seatbelt—anything, some hint of the world outside.

Shadows stretch across the walls of the truck bed. Their movements are quick, practiced. Everything about them screams danger.

I bite my lip until it bleeds. My hands tremble.

I want to do something, anything, but the ropes dig into my wrists, a constant reminder of my helplessness. The truck hits another bump, throwing me against the door, and I catch my breath in a strangled gasp.

“Move faster,” one of them says from the front. The words are casual, almost bored, but my blood goes cold.

Faster. They’re not just taking me. They’re moving me with purpose. Every second feels like a knife twisting in my gut.

I press my forehead to the cool metal of the door and try to think. I can’t see the road. I can’t see Gabe. I can’t see anyone who might save me.

But I can feel.