Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Nothing. Inside is nothing but a bare metal floor, and the stench of bleach. No ropes, no blankets, not a single trace of Charlotte or Melanie. A hollow ache punches through my ribs.
“Clear!” a deputy calls. The word clangs around like an accusation.
I stride deeper, light raking every corner, refusing to believe the emptiness. Knuckles brush riveted seams, seeking warmth that isn’t there. It’s an icebox of lies—Wade’s last bargaining chip already melted away.
Dean enters behind me, tablet glowing blue on his palm. “Thermal’s flat. No residual heat signatures.”
I yank the radio mic. “Unit Three, check the outer lot for tire impressions. Anything fresh, I want photos and casts.” Static hisses back, negative.
Dean exhales, removing his headset. “They never intended to keep them here. Wade was a breadcrumb.”
I slam the container door, and the clang vibrates up my arm. “How far ahead are we playing catch-up? They scrubbed two hours of camera feed, cloned the server, cut every angle.”
He nods, jaw tight. “Professional tier. Cartel logistics or high-end traffickers.”
My stomach knots—I’ve walked those corridors in other countries, but this is home turf. Charlotte. Focus.
“What else do we have?” I ask, forcing the tactical overlay back into place.
Dean scrolls. “Melanie’s Benz left her garage at 01:58. Plate registered on traffic cam at Bayside Bridge, heading west—then disappears. Likely swapped to a trailer or container.”
“So they’re mobile.” I picture a semi rolling through dawn traffic, two terrified women hidden behind freight walls.
“State police issued BOLO on every dark-grey tractor-trailer inside a hundred-mile radius,” Dean continues. “We tapped DHS for plate recognition at port entries.”
It feels paper-thin. Each minute stretches the grid larger, the probability smaller. I rub grit from my eyes, exhaustion threatening to blur critical edges.
Dean’s tone softens. “We won’t quit, Ash. I’ve got the US Marshals on standby, highway patrol stacking checkpoints. Someone will crack.”
Someone. But until then Charlotte is out there counting hours, maybe convincing herself I’m not coming. The weight of that thought nearly staggers me.
I pull out my phone anyway, thumb hovering over her last text—Tomorrow. At this rate tomorrow feels like a cruel joke. Signal bars taunt me, full strength but utterly useless.
“Dean,” I say quietly. “We need fresh intel—off-book. Any local informants touched by cartel shipping? Even rumors.”
He nods once, already typing. “I’ll tap friends in Saint Pierce Port Authority. And there’s a DEA liaison in Magnolia Ridge who owes me.”
My fists clench and release. Anger threatens to blind, but I force it back. Rage without direction is a muzzle flash in the dark.
Outside, sirens fade as units clear the scene. The evening air tastes of diesel and sea salt. I stare across the rows of silent containers—so many blind corners, any one of them capable of swallowing hope.
A deputy approaches. “No fresh tracks, sir. Lot’s been swept clean.”
Figures. Professionals erase footprints.
I thank him out of habit, but the hollow drumming in my chest grows louder. I replay every precaution I took, every contingency. Somehow they still threaded the needle. Charlotte trusted me to keep her safe. I failed.
Dean steps beside me, his voice low. “I know that look. Don’t spiral.”
I breathe in four counts, hold for four, and then release. “Give me something concrete.”
“We have cell activity.” He taps the screen. “A burner pinged near Yven City, same tower sequence as the prepaid Wade called. It lit up for two minutes at 06:10, then went dark.”
A spark, small but real. “Pull cameras within that radius. Gas stations, ATMs, storefronts.”
“Already queued. We’ll run facial recog once footage is in.”
Finally, a direction. I pivot toward the truck. “Let’s move. I’m not waiting for the desk-jockey loop.”
Dean grabs my elbow. “Asher. We charge in blind, we risk losing them. We need pattern analysis—routes, timing, driver rest windows.”
I close my eyes, forcing logic over raw instinct. He’s right. Charging every lead solo will burn time, not save it.
“Okay,” I breathe. “We go to Ops, collate everything.”
Dean releases my arm, relieved. “Good. And Asher?”
I meet his gaze—firm, unflinching.
“We’ll bring her back.”
The promise hangs between us, and it’s the only lifeline keeping despair from swallowing me. I grip it like steel as we climb into the truck and speed toward the command post, knowing I won’t stop until Charlotte is safe in my arms again. No matter how many dead ends I have to tear down to reach her.
37
Charlotte
I feel the shift before I see it. The container doors open with a grinding metallic groan, cold morning air rushing in, stinging my face. Men move into the shadows where Melanie and I huddle against the far wall. Their voices are clipped, speaking quickly in Spanish and low English.
One of them gestures for us to stand. Another holds out a hand—not gentle, but not rough either. A silent command: Get up. Now.
My legs tremble as I push to standing, my body stiff from hours on the cold floor. Melanie follows suit, clutching my arm, her eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. Neither of us speak as they guide us forward, the air thick with unspoken fear.