Page 93 of Yours on the Canvas

Once we had Peter’s name, the entire puzzle fell into place. Jack hadn’t just been fighting in random low-tier circuits; he had been pulled into an invite-only underground syndicate operating out of a heavily fortified warehouse complex owned by one of Sale’s shell companies.

Everything was completely off-grid. They were old-school; paper, envelopes, posted invites only. Phones were confiscated at the entrance to ensure nothing leaked out; it was a strictly electronic-free zone. No wonder my searches had turned up nothing. They had locked him away in a digital dead zone.

I sat with my knee bouncing as we flew over the border into the States. I looked at CJ, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek, while Deck sat next to him, checking the slide on his weapon with a rhythmic, metallic click that set my teeth on edge.

“We’re forty minutes out from the city limits,” Reid’s voice came over my headset. “Mack and Callan are already waiting for us at the rendezvous point near the warehouse district. I’ll land us as close as I can get.”

I didn’t answer. I just reached down, my thumb and forefinger instinctively brushing against the heavy gold band on my pinkie finger.

Find me, Sol.

Jack’s voice from that cruel, phantom dream echoed still in my skull, refusing to let me rest. After three months of empty screens, dead ends, and a grief so heavy it felt like swallowing glass, we finally had a pin on the map.

“Come on, come on,” I muttered, my voice dangerously low. “I’m done waiting.”

Reid huffs through the comms. “Patience, brother. I’m pushing her as fast I can.”

I huff a response as I look out the window watching Seattle come into view.

* * *

The rendezvous point was a rusted-out shipping yard three blocks away from the massive brick warehouse tied to Peter Sale’s shell company.

Mack and Callan stepped out of the shadows, and stand in front of two trucks as the Huey lands, the rotors slowing. I take the two men in, their faces grim under the amber wash of the overhead security lights as we jumped out.

“What’s the status?” I demand as we loaded our gear onto our bodies, vests, spare rounds, knives.

We suit up for war.

“We scouted the perimeter ten minutes ago,” Mack said, pulling up a live thermal feed on his tablet. “Everything was clear. Too clear, so we thought we’d take a look inside again. but it was empty, nothing. No guards, no fighters, no Jack.”

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped animal. “They moved him?”

“Or they knew we were coming,” Callan added, his hand resting on the grip of his sidearm. “But we found something in the front office. It points to Dale and Ray operating out of a secluded safe house two miles north when they aren’t at the venue. That’s where they take him to lock him down.”

“Then we don’t waste time,” Deck snapped, stepping up beside me with a cold, lethal smirk on his face. “Let’s go fucking crash a family reunion.”

We pile back into the trucks, moving fast and running dark without headlights as we close in on the house hidden behind a thick wall of towering pine trees. The house looks quiet from the outside, dark windows staring out into the drizzle, but my instincts scream that a nest of vipers are waiting inside.

Excellent, time to chop the head off the snake.

We move tight and silent toward the house. Mack and Callan take the rear, while CJ, Deck, and I swept toward the heavy oak front door.

I didn’t bother with subtlety.

I raised my boot, slamming it square against the lock. The wood splinters with a deafening crack, and the door flies open.

“Federal! Clear!” Deck roared, stepping across the threshold first with his weapon raised.

I bark a laugh at that. “Federal?”

He shrugs at me and a heartbeat later, all hell breaks loose.

From the shadows of the hallway, muzzle flashes erupt in rapid succession. Bullets chew through the plaster board inches from my head. I drop low, returning fire as Dale steps out from the living room doorway, a shotgun raised in his hands, his face twisted in a mask of manic rage.

“You shouldn’t have come looking, hacker,” Dale snarled, swinging the barrel toward me.

Before he could pull the trigger, CJ’s sidearm barks three times. Two in the chest, one in the forehead. Dale jerks backward, the shotgun clattering to the floor as he hits the hardwood, dead before he lands.