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)
We huddle together on the narrow bunk, hope ebbing away with the tide.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, I can’t stop the thought spiraling through my mind—What if Asher can’t find us in time? What if he never does?
38
Asher
It’s nearly two in the morning when we roll back into the tactical command post. I haven’t slept in almost thirty-six hours—neither has Dean. The blue glow of laptops and portable monitors light up the cramped space like a sterile aquarium. Law enforcement liaisons, U.S. Marshals, FBI field agents—we’ve pulled in everyone we can.
And still there’s nothing.
The shipping container was a ghost trail. Cleaned hours before we got there. Not a scrap of evidence, not a trace of DNA, not even a heat signature worth chasing. They scrubbed it perfectly. If they were even there at all. They knew exactly how much time they had.
I wrap my hands around a fresh cup of scalding coffee and sip it like it might restart my brain. It won’t. No caffeine will drown out the thought circling in my skull: Charlotte is gone.
Not gone as in dead—my gut tells me she’s alive. But gone—out of reach.
For now.
I plant myself in front of the largest monitor in the room. Highway camera grids blink and rotate, rows of data scroll faster than the eye can follow. We’re scraping everything—toll booths, gas stations, port entries, marine traffic records, Coast Guard sweeps.
“Bring up the Yven ping again,” I say, voice raw.
Dean nods, fingers flying. “We’ve got two minutes of signal from the burner phone—connected to a commercial relay near the port. No cameras on that block. It’s a warehouse zone.”
“Then what?”
“Burner went dead. No further pings.”
I lean back in my chair, closing my eyes for a beat. Four deep breaths in. Control. I can’t afford adrenaline spikes. I need my mind sharp.
But under that thin layer of focus, something darker churns… a gnawing, clawing rage. I can see her face with perfect clarity. Charlotte, tied up, afraid. Her eyes searching every shadow for me.
And I’m not there.
I slam the cup down and stand. “What else?”
Dean’s voice drops a notch. “One potential lead. Port Authority flagged a leased yacht—small crew, fake registration. Left dock twelve about an hour after that burner ping.”
My pulse jumps. “Time stamp?”
“04:22.”
That was almost twenty-two hours ago. In a fast boat, they could be halfway to the Bahamas or Cuba by now.
“Who signed for the lease?” I demand.
“Diego,” Dean says. “Facial recognition matched him on dock cameras.”
He pulls up the image—a grainy, black-and-white still. But the smirk is clear. The bastard even looked at the camera.
Cocky. Overconfident. That might be his mistake.
“Get Coast Guard on this. And satellite,” I snap. “I want heat sig sweeps of every vessel matching that profile in the Atlantic.”
Dean’s already dialing. “Copy that.”
I grab my comms gear and slide the earpiece in. “I’m going to the port. I want eyes on that slip myself.”
Dean glances up. “We’ll keep feeding updates.”
I drive like a demon through empty streets, cutting corners, ignoring speed limits. At the port, the graveyard shift security team waves me through the checkpoint—they’ve heard the chatter. Everyone’s on edge. Everyone knows the clock is ticking.
Slip twelve is quiet. Empty.
The ropes lie coiled neatly on the dock where the yacht cast off. A dark smear on the edge of the slip catches my eye—rubber scuff from the boat hull. They left in a hurry.
I move methodically, sweeping the area. Every detail counts. Near a power junction box, I find it—a scrap of red silk ribbon.
My chest tightens. Charlotte was wearing a red scarf two nights ago—looped through her ponytail. Coincidence? I don’t believe in those.
I bag it, snap photos, send them straight to Dean.
She was here.
My phone buzzes. Dean’s voice is taut. “No flight logs. No land routes. If they’re moving her, it’s on water.”
I already know that. I can feel it in my gut. They’re running out to sea. Once they’re in international waters, we lose jurisdiction. Unless we intercept fast.
“Passenger list?” I ask.
“No manifest. Dockhand noted a man in a nice suit boarding.”
“And Charlotte and Melanie?”
“Probably hidden below deck.”
“Got an ID on the man?”
“We’re thinking Felix Castillo.”
Fuck me.
I force down the spike of fury threatening to choke me. Think tactically. Stay sharp.
Back at the command post, Dean and I pore over every frame of drone footage, every satellite ping. The Coast Guard has mobilized. FAA granted temporary drone clearance. Homeland is involved now.
But it’s not enough. Not fast enough.
I pace behind the screens, scanning each incoming data stream. “Think like them,” I mutter. “Fast yacht, no ransom demands. Why?”
Dean meets my eyes. “Castillo has buyers offshore. Private clients. Charlotte and Melanie are valuable commodities now.”
My fists curl. I want to punch a hole through the wall. Instead, I force the rage down.
“Then we find them before they cross that line.”