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"She was tracking drug runners, Jaxson." Parker's voice cracked. "The bastards opened fire on her."

"Fuck." I drove my fingers through my hair, pacing the edge of the pit.

Onyx tracked my movements with her tail low and hackles slightly raised.

"What’s her last known position?" I asked Parker.

“Hang on,” Parker said, and as the noises down the line increased, I pictured the last time I’d seen Tory at the Christmas party.

She’d worn a red dress that hugged all the right curves.

She'd been with Whisper all night, and their laughter had carried across the room with the kind of easy joy that made everything else fade away. I hadn’t been the only one watching her, though.

The date she’d arrived with was some hotshot from the drug squad with more ego than sense, and he had nearly put his fist through the wall when she’d left with Torres from paramedic unit two.

Didn't blame her. Torres at least knew how to smile.

"They think she went down near where they found those trafficking victims last month," Parker said.

My head snapped toward the eastern tree line.

The wall of greenery was impenetrable beyond the first few feet.

Between us and the coastline stretched miles of nature's deadliest obstacles: mosquito-infested swamps, deadly snakes, and mud that could swallow my Jeep without a trace.

The image of Tory out there, maybe bleeding, maybe worse, made my stomach twist into knots.

"That's what, ten miles from here?"

"Jesus, you’re right. You're closer than any of the rescue teams they’ve scrambled. You need to find her."

Whitney hauled himself out of the pit, joints cracking from being cramped too long. He peeled off his face mask, revealing tracks of sweat cutting through the grime on his face. "Something more pressing than our Jane Doe, Jax?"

I held up a finger, silencing Whitney and earning a scowl that could curdle milk.

"Did she go down?" I asked Parker.

“We don’t know. The Mayday cut off mid-transmission.”

"Fuck." I swallowed hard.

Onyx pressed against my leg, her ears pricked toward the woods, nose working overtime. She'd caught my rising anxiety, shifting her weight between paws, ready to move. Ready to hunt.

"If she crashed in that swamp . . ." The words jammed in my throat. “Onyx and I will go now. We’ll find her.”

Whitney ripped off his gloves, the latex snapping in the humid air. "Like hell you are! We've got a fresh corpse and a crime scene that needs processing. You're not walking away from?—"

"Parker," I cut in, halting Whitney, and his face darkened. "This body we found is going to crack every cold case you've got from this hellhole wide open, so you need to take over from me up here."

"Christ. I can’t. They’ve got everyone working on finding Tory and the bastards who shot at her."

"Parker, listen." I fixed my gaze on Whitney. "Whoever buried the woman here, they're going to be real pissed that we found this body. So keep a lid on it."

Parker groaned as another burst of shouting filtered through his end. "Chief needs an update, Jax. You know that."

"Damn it." The hairs on my neck stood up, and the center of my back tingled like a sniper's crosshairs were zeroed in. "Fine. Tell him. But only him. We can't risk this getting to the wrong ears."

Whitney was photographing something in the pit, his movements precise and controlled despite the sweat dripping from his chin.

"Text me Tory's last known coordinates,” I said to Parker, “and keep me updated if anything comes in."

"Copy that. And, Jax?" Parker's voice dropped lower. "If Tory was shot down, those bastards could be hunting her, too. Watch your back out there."

"Always do." I brushed my hand over the grip of my Sig. "Same goes for you."

I ended the call and stared down at our Jane Doe.

A woman arranged with rotting flowers. A plane shot from the sky. Mass graves of trafficked kids. This place collected nightmares like they were gems.

"Damn it, Whit," I said. "Tory’s plane went down. I have to find her."

Whitney looked up from where he was photographing the body. “Ah, shit. Okay, at least give me a hand to lift this body out of here.”

He grabbed a tarp from his kit, and we spread it beside the grave. Following his detailed instructions, I helped transfer the body onto the tarp.

“All good?” I said, itching to get going.

“Yes. Go. Do what you do best." His expression softened, and for a moment I saw the kid who used to patch up my scraped knees after bike crashes. "Just keep me in the loop. I've got at least six hours of processing here before we can even think about transporting her back to Rosebud."

"That long?"

He gestured at the gravesite with his camera.

"Full photographic documentation. Soil samples. Evidence collection. Need to map the whole area, measure everything." He sighed. "And that's assuming nothing complicated turns up. Could stretch to eight, maybe ten hours."

"Maybe we should call in someone from?—"

"No, Jaxson." His voice hardened. "I'm sick of getting this close only to watch our cases collapse like houses of cards. This stays between us. You. Me. Parker. That's it."

I threw him a mock salute. "Yes, boss."

"I mean it." He crouched back down, changing his camera lens. "Whoever buried this woman is connected to this orphanage, and we both know those threads lead straight to Scorpion Industries. This forensic scene could blow a dozen cases wide open."

"That's a lot of weight to put on our Jane Doe."

"And I intend to process every inch of it by the book. Which means we keep this quiet."

"Okay. As soon as I find Tory . . ." The words stuck in my throat, neither of us wanting to voice the alternatives. "I'll be back to help."

"Good. Watch yourself out there." He held out his fist, the same gesture we'd been using since we were kids racing BMX bikes through Cedar Grove.

Before Charlotte vanished into those same woods.

Before we learned monsters wore clothes and smiled at charity galas.

Twenty years later, we were still chasing her shadow and still searching for people who disappeared into the dark .

Only now we carried badges and guns instead of flashlights and walkie-talkies.

"You too." I bumped his fist, managing a tight smile. "If anyone but me or Parker shows up?—"

"I know. I'll skedaddle." Whitney chuckled. "At least I've got enough protein bars to last me through to dawn if I have to. Now get outta here, you paranoid bastard, before this gets even more complicated."

"Paranoia keeps you alive, brother," I said, turning away. "Onyx, come."

She fell into stride beside me, and I sprinted toward the crumbling outer wall of the main building.

Massive gum trees, that were probably planted when this was still a working orphanage, stretched their gnarled limbs over the path, and their roots had erupted through the old walkway like giant knuckles, forcing us to weave between them.

Why the fuck did I go this way?

Every other time, I'd crossed through the building.

Onyx navigated the chaos effortlessly, her powerful shoulders brushing against my leg whenever the path narrowed. At least one of us knew what they were doing.

As I shoved through the last of the head-high weeds and sprinted toward my Jeep, Whitney's comments echoed in my head.

Complicated didn't begin to cover what we were dealing with.

This stretch of coast had been a smuggler's paradise since the rum-running days, and now it was cartel territory and hidden graveyards.

Every hectare was tainted with blood money, and this godforsaken orphanage held secrets worth killing for.

God knew what else was buried in this area.

And now Tory was lost in a hellhole and fighting for her life.

If she wasn't already dead.