Page 103 of Savage Surrender

The image is grainy and shot from above, but the stupid tourist hat gives him away. Tristan stands beneath the Wrecker’s Point Pharmacy sign with sunglasses covering half his face.

I turn the screen toward Owen. Charles sees it too.

Owen has the burner at his ear calling home before I lower the phone. It goes to voicemail.

“Move Bianca now. Treat the house as burned and call me.”

He hangs up and calls again. Nothing. Tristan next. Nothing. Weller again.

“Pick up. Pick the fuck up.”

I search the group for Wrecker’s Point. My thumb hits the wrong letters twice before I get it right. No results. Pharmacy. Nothing. Bianca. Old messages. I open the posts around Alexander’s picture and keep scrolling, looking for an address, a time, a reply that tells me who else has seen it.

There is nothing. Only Tristan beneath the sign and two and a half hours of road and water between us and Bianca.

Owen calls Weller again.

Charles follows the phone with his eyes. “Maybe you’re already too late.”

I step toward him. Owen’s free hand closes around my wrist before I get there, the grip light but firm enough to make me look at him.

“Pack the room.”

He shoves the burner into my hand. The call rolls to voicemail again as a thud hits the floor across the hall.

I am moving to check on it, but my mom speaks before I reach the door.

“I’m fine. I dropped the shoe.”

“Stay there. I’ll get it.”

Mason calls before I can redial. “I have the account index. Listing shutdown is processing.”

“Finish it,” Owen says. “Tell us when we can close the lids.”

He heads downstairs for the camera laptop. I put my father’s phone, the two pistols, magazines, radio, and black drive into the backpack, leaving room for the personal computer while Mason works.

My mom appears in the opposite doorway with her shoes on.

“One more minute,” I tell her. “Lock the door until I come back.”

Her gaze flicks to my father and away again. She closes the door.

The burner vibrates in my hand.

Done. You can close them.

I shut the personal laptop and slide it into the backpack. The rug beside the bed is empty.

“Help!” My father’s shout tears through the house. “Somebody help me!”

Owen hits the upper landing with the camera laptop as I reach the balcony door. It stands wide open, the curtains lifting and falling around it.

He made it to the far corner of the balcony and put one leg over the railing. His wrists are still bound in front. Both forearms hook across the top rail while he stretches for the copper downspout.

He looks over his shoulder when we enter, and I start walking toward him.

“Freddie, wait.” Owen catches the back of my hoodie.