Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
There’s no traffic out here. No brake lights. No slow-moving pickups. Just me, asphalt, and early morning. The occasional fencepost flashes by. I’m grateful there aren’t any cops on this stretch. I’d have to decide between stopping and ramming a cruiser, and I know which way I’d go.
I keep one hand on the steering wheel and drum my free fingers on my thigh. I’m not nervous. Not exactly. Certainly not excited.
Just…aware.
Hyperaware.
Hyperaware that every minute I take getting to Daniela is one fewer minute I have to save her.
I should have been with her.
I bite that thought in half and mentally spit it out.
If I let my mind go there…
Nope.
Can’t.
Regret at this point is counterproductive.
The speedometer climbs. Ranchland rolls into emptiness. Daniela’s face keeps showing up in the glass. I press the accelerator and watch her vanish and then return.
Vanish.
Return.
It’s been—what?—half an hour since I left? I glance at the dash. Thirty-three minutes.
Fuck.
I need to tell someone where I’m going. In case I need backup. But then they’ll follow, and I don’t want that.
But I have to be smart about this.
The thought punches me in the ribs. I know better than to go alone. I’ve given that lecture to Falcon, to Robin, to half the men I’ve hired across a dozen operations. Lone wolves die of their own pride.
I don’t slow. I simply thumb the steering wheel control and bark, “Call Robin.”
The ringtone fills the car. It rings. And rings. And rings.
“Come on, Robbie.” My voice sounds hoarse. “Pick up.”
Voicemail. Again.
“Robin, it’s me. I need you. Call me back ASAP.” I rattle off the coordinates, the rough mile marker, the county road numbers that only locals use.
I end the call, jaw locked. Where the hell is she? This isn’t like her at all. My gut doesn’t like it, and my gut is rarely wrong. But I can’t give that any more thought.
Daniela.
Have to get to Daniela.
“Call Vinnie.”
It rings once.
“Hawk?” He sounds wired. He’s been wired since this whole thing started. At least Belinda is home safely. “Jesus fuck. I’m getting ready to leave. You can’t do this alone. I’m moving. Wait for me.”
“If I turn around, I lose time.” The white lines on the road blur faster. “And time is the only thing keeping Dani alive.”
“Time and not doing something suicidal,” he snaps. “We will find her, but I need to get my men on this. Give me some time.”
“Time? One minute could be the difference between a door opening and a trigger being pulled.” I try to keep the heat out of my voice.
“Hawk, listen to me.” He blows out a breath. “I know these kinds of men. When Jacinto was alive, Franco—Chef, Gordon Brown, whatever name he’s wearing—used Daniela to get back at his brother. He wanted Jacinto to feel. But now? There’s no leash. If Chef has been spiraling, he’s not going to follow any code. You roll up solo and you give him exactly what he wants. This is theater to him, and you’re going to give him an audience.”
The word theater lands like gravel in my head.
“Vinnie.” I keep my eyes on the road. “He told Daniela to come alone. If he even smells backup, he could panic and blow everything…including her.”
“Or he could be bluffing because he wants a chase. He wants to move you like a chess piece.” Paper rustles on his end. “You drop into his zone blind and you don’t know what you’re walking into.”
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel until my knuckles go white. I force a slow inhale. “Where are you now?” I ask.
“Office. Raven’s making calls. Belinda’s home and upstairs with a therapist friend who owes me twenty favors.” He pauses. “Hawk, please. Don’t do this alone.”
“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not sorry at all.
“You’re doing this,” he says, not a question. Resignation, anger, and—yes—even understanding lace his tone.
“I am.”
A pause. “Then listen. Park at least three hundred yards out. Don’t silhouette yourself. Wind is ten miles per hour from the northwest, so approach from the east to keep sound masked by the tree line. And Hawk?”
“Yeah?”
“If something feels off, it is. Don’t be a hero.”
“I’m not a hero,” I say. “I’m the man who gets her home.”
He goes quiet for a moment. “Send me your live location. I won’t move on you. I just want to see your dot moving.”
“You’ll have it.” I send it over.
I press on the gas.
Franco Agudelo. Gordon Brown. Uncle. Chef. The names pile up like dishes in a sink. The story Vinnie told me is still rattling around—black sheep, forced into servitude, addiction, a second life as a chef. It would be almost tragic if he hadn’t dragged Daniela into it.
Then there’s Reyes. The favor. The coordinates to the barn wreathed in moonflowers like a shrine. Burn it, he said, and I almost did.