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She could be anywhere.
Anywhere.
As realization after realization hit me and I discovered her trail was completely cold, I raced home, got a team working to hack airport security tapes, track any flights in and out of all the surrounding areas, monitor any cars leaving the venue area throughout the duration of the event.
Because of my pitiful priorities, we never made contact, we never learned motivations, we never got the chance to track the man back to headquarters, we got nothing.
Since I don’t know motivations, I don’t know if the Maxim Project wants my Briar tortured or killed.
I don’t know if I’m having fifty men track down a corpse.
Tears bead in my eyes as I stall in the corner with Bugsy’s cage, grip the metal, and fight to calm myself as he preens and twitters.
Looking back on how seamlessly our target came and went with Briar, it all feels like a set up. The Maxim Project operates as flawlessly as she does—every chess piece in the palm of their hands.
Lace and Chip will be here soon.
She’s fine.
She has to be.
She’s more capable than anyone I’ve ever met.
If they’ve been stupid enough to bring her into their nest, they better be prepared for the consequences. She’ll unravel them from the inside out, ship me my parents’ limbs in a box, and suggest that I overreacted. As a joke. Right before asking me to send her my tablet, because her Lily’s Garden progress is invaluable even though our business is done here.
Stuffing the ring box in my pocket, I console myself with delusion up until the moment a knock sounds on my door.
“Boss?” Chip’s voice calls.
In two strides, I’m there, swinging the heavy door open, and locating Chip, Lace…and Aster.
He’s still supposed to be at The Giungla.
My brow furrows.
The shifting concern on their faces makes my stomach riot.
“What?” I growl. “Did you find something? Is it bad?”
Chip winces, running his fingers through his curls. “It’s not…great?”
Aster steps forward, rubbing the scar on his chin with one thumb as he holds out a crisp, thick card.
The sight alone turns my blood to ice.
Because it’s perfectly, devastatingly familiar.
I spent sleepless weeks studying one like it, searching for any signs, any hints, any reason.
I found nothing.
There was no ransom. No clue.
Just gloating.
A simple, gold-indented line of text.
We have your parents. - The Maxim Project
