“You think these bastards might come after me?”

“You never know. We’ve got a wild card.”

In any mission, there are unknown variables. Risks. In this situation, a man called in a tip. He didn’t provide information for payment, but he did ensure he had a way of claiming his reward. We sit in the car beneath a cloudy night sky, waiting.

Agent Ryland didn’t leave us with a way of monitoring the SWAT team progress. I have my phone on the dash, ready and waiting for a call. Jack lays his head down on the dash. His hands come up below his face. He looks like he might be praying. I happen to know Jack isn’t a particularly religious man, but there’s not a person on the planet who won’t pray to a higher power when faced with no other options.

“I can’t sit here. I’m going to go.” Jack’s hand rests on the door handle.

“You go, and you run the risk of alerting them. You go, and you run the risk of the FBI mistaking us for one of them. It sucks. But wait. It’s the smartest play. Let the experts do their job.”

I catch Alex’s eyes from the back seat. She blinks her agreement. Sitting and waiting is torturous. It’s hard to fucking do. But, in this scenario, it’s the best play.

Forty-five minutes pass in silence. It’s not the time for small talk. I have the window down so I can hear any footsteps. Every few minutes, I get out and circle the vehicle. A couple of cars whiz by. Each time, my hand falls on my gun at my waist.

The phone lights up with a shrill ring.

“We’ve got her. Ambulance is on the way. Location is secure. Drive up and onto the property. Sophia wants her father.”

End of Part 2

CHAPTER 21

Alex

Red flashing lights cast shadows over sandy ground and stucco walls. Overgrown weeds sprout in pockets along the buildings. Agents swarm the ground, many in full tactical gear. An armed agent approaches our SUV and visually checks the interior, shining a flashlight over each of us and the floorboards.

Ryan flashes identification and says, “Agent Liam Ryland requested we approach.”

“Just up ahead. He’s waiting for you down the road, past the two buildings.”

The Range Rover’s wheels crunch the rock-strewn ground. We bypass an old building with broken windows and a crooked, rusted sign that reads “Temecula Storage.”

Jack cracks the door open. The dashboard lights up, and the car emits a high-pitched warning sound.

“Not yet.” Ryan’s tone brokers no room for negotiation.

From the back seat, I reach forward, covering Jack’s shoulder, holding him in place.

We round the building, passing a cluster of four agents in tactical gear. All four scan the area in high-alert mode.

The whir of an ambulance’s sirens filters through the car windows.

The storage building to our left is two stories high with countless doors, the kind you roll up and down. Judging from the vines and rust, the facility has been out of use for years. Beyond the storage facility, the narrow dirt road continues, leading to a stucco home with a tile roof. Light pours out of the windows, and the front door is wide open. A black SUV is parked out front. A red light flashes on the dashboard. There’s a man in handcuffs beside the SUV.