And she was so scared. I want Papá. Tears stung her eyes, but she couldn’t cry.

The little shadow that was Aric moved closer to the back of the van. He was in place.

Mouth tight, she got out her knife and opened it. Her job was to be the distraction. And even attack if she had to.

Down by the houses, Kit was yelling again, and Bull’s shout was even louder. The noise they made didn’t quite hide the tiny creak from the van as Aric slipped inside.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel as a guard walked around the van.

Oh no. Regan wiggled closer to the back, just in case the man looked inside and saw Aric.

He kept walking.

Her knife hand was shaking. She was shaking. Friggers, she wanted to run home.

Why was she here?

For Hawk. Right. And for Frankie.

And even for Aric.

She tightened her grip on the knife and silently repeated what Uncle Bull said anytime she whined about something being too hard. “Pain is acceptable. Quitting is not. Blood is acceptable. Quitting is not. Falling is acceptable. Quitting is not.”

Her lips pressed together. I won’t quit.

Nabera started yelling nasty words. Then Bull shouted something.

Hurry, Aric.

How they’d get Frankie and Uncle Hawk out of here…she didn’t know that.

Maybe she was a stupidhead, cuz she’d believed Aric when he said Hawk would fix it.

She really, really hoped the kid was right.

What the fuck was going on out there? Hawk turned his head, wincing as the movement sent his headache into high gear. He could sure hear Kit’s voice way too clearly. Although she was shouting, he could hear her fear.

Why in hell was she outside instead of safe in the Hermitage? His jaw tightened as Nabera bellowed in anger.

He pulled at the ropes around his wrists. No give. He’d never felt so fucking helpless.

Feeling a slight dip of the van, Hawk eyed the open door. No one blocked the light from outside. Frankie hadn’t moved.

There was a whisper of sound, a slight movement of the air. Something small had crawled into the cargo area. A cat, maybe? There were too many shadows to see clearly.

A cold little hand touched his cheek, and he heard the tiniest of whispers in his ear. “Hawk.”

Son of a fucking bitch.

Terror shot shards of ice right into his heart. Aric. God, no. He’d rather die than have the boy hurt.

Before he could figure out what to do, Aric crawled behind him and started sawing at the ropes around Hawk’s wrists.

Damned if the kid didn’t have a knife.

This might take a while. The fucking PZs had used lots of rope in tying him up—and the child had only a four-year-old’s strength.