Zara stared at the photo until her vision blurred.
Jaxon's face. Swollen lip. That stubborn look in his eyes defiance, even in pain.
They didn't break him.
Yet.
She forwarded the email to Quinn, heart pounding.
"We have to trace it. The sender, the location anything."
Quinn pulled up her laptop, already moving. "I'm on it. But Zara…" She hesitated. "You can't go alone."
Zara looked up, fierce. "I have to. That's what they want. If I bring anyone else, they'll hurt him."
"You walk into that meeting and it could be a trap."
Zara's voice was a whisper now, but steel-lined. "It is a trap. I just have to spring it on my terms."
She didn't sleep that night.
Instead, she prepared.
Layered a recording device under her hoodie.
Charged a backup phone with a live GPS tracker Quinn would monitor.
And tucked one of Theo's drive keys into her boot just in case.
At 4:00 a.m., a second email came through.
"Come to Warehouse 9, Pier District. No police. No broadcasts. No games."
Below that, a timer.
You have 2 hours.
Zara inhaled.
Then exhaled fire.
By 5:45 a.m., she stood outside a rusting warehouse at the edge of the city, fog curling around her ankles.
The air smelled of salt and secrets.
She walked in slowly, every step echoing across the concrete floor.
And then there he was.
Jaxon. Tied to a chair, wrists bloodied, head bowed. But alive.
Her feet moved before her brain could catch up.
"Jaxon"
"Zara, no!"
A hand grabbed her from behind.
Cold steel pressed to her ribs.
"Nice to finally meet you, Ms. Adeniyi," came a smooth, snake-oil voice behind her.
She didn't have to turn to know.
Victor Blackthorne.