Chapter 3

The rain had only just stopped. Steam still rose from the roadside ditch, and when my headlights swept across the pavement, the ground threw back a thin, wet shine.

I gripped the steering wheel. Margaret was cinched into the passenger seat with restraints, wrists bound behind her back, a wad of cloth stuffed in her mouth. She breathed hard, muffled sounds pushing out of her throat.

The motel was up ahead on the outskirts of town. Half the sign was dead, leaving only a few dull yellow letters glowing.

It was a long, two-story building. The front desk sat on the first floor, the parking lot spread out in front.

Once you turned in from the road, you could pull up and park right outside any room.

The second floor was an open-air walkway, and there was no exterior staircase.

I didn’t drive into the brightest section of the lot. I stopped farther out, with half the car tucked into shadow. I left the engine running, just idling with a low tremor.

In the distance, someone smoked on the first-floor walkway. The ember flared and dimmed. Two cars sat nearby, like they could roll out at any second.

The air after rain carried dampness and oil—sharp enough to keep you awake.

I turned my head and looked at Margaret.

Her eyes were locked on me. She tried to speak, but with her mouth gagged she couldn’t get a word out.

“If you understand, nod,” I said.

She nodded immediately, fast—like she was afraid I’d change my mind in the next second.

“Is this motel under your people’s control, or are you just borrowing it?”

If it was their territory, every room could be a trap. If it was only being used temporarily, I could walk in like a normal guest and scout without tripping alarms.

Margaret forced out a few frantic, muffled whimpers. She shook her head hard, then nodded hard, then froze somewhere in between.

I understood.

She didn’t know—or more accurately, she wasn’t allowed to know.

Her job was to deliver children here. Who received them, who ran the motel side of the operation—she’d never had the right to ask.

“Fine,” I said, not wasting more time. “You don’t know.”

I wasn’t going to gamble, either. I lifted my eyes to the second-floor walkway. Behind a few curtains were shapes that didn’t sit right, like someone was standing just out of view.

My objective was clear: confirm which room Noah was being held in.

I reached into the back seat and pulled out a roll of tape without hesitation. Margaret saw it and her eyes went wide. She started twisting, trying to shove herself out of the restraints with her shoulder, but I’d cinched them tight. She couldn’t move.

“Don’t try,” I said. “When you’re useless to me, you’re more dangerous than when you’re useful.”

I sealed her mouth with tape—tight, leaving only her nostrils free—then wrapped another strip around her ankles.

I locked the car and slid out from the shadow along the passenger side, moving along the edge of the parking lot to avoid angles the cameras might cover.

Motel doors lined the first floor. The concrete still showed rain marks, and there were dark spots where cigarette butts had just gone out. Some rooms were occupied, and some were being watched.

At the far end of the first-floor walkway, the smoker stood scanning the lot. I couldn’t be sure who he was, only that his eyes kept moving.

There was movement upstairs too—doors opening softly, closing again, someone leaning out, then pulling back. These people weren’t careful. They relied on one thing: no one dared come looking.

I didn’t go to the front desk, and I didn’t get close to the smoker.

Using a drainpipe and the motel’s air-conditioning units as handholds, I climbed up to the second-floor walkway. Quiet, controlled.

Once I was up, I stayed close to the inside wall.

A walkway light hung every few meters. In the lit stretches I moved quickly; in the dark stretches I paused, checking door gaps, curtain seams, anything that shouldn’t be there.

Near the middle, one room leaked a thin line of light under the door. Voices inside.

A “Do Not Disturb” sign hung on the knob. I crouched and pressed an ear to the door.

There was a faint sound—cloth rubbing, or someone forcing their breathing down.

My gaze shifted to the window.

The curtains were drawn tight, leaving only a slit at the very bottom, narrower than a finger.

I lowered myself slowly and looked through.

No TV glow. No luggage like a normal guest would have. Just a chair and an open travel bag.

A man sat in the chair, a phone in his hand, like he was waiting for a message.

I moved on, planning to check the neighboring rooms and map the numbers and guard pattern.

Then, as I lifted my foot for the next step, a dull thump came from the parking lot below.

I stopped immediately and looked down through the second-floor railing.

Straight to my car.

The silhouette inside was jerking.

The next second, the horn exploded.

Not a quick tap—a sustained, blaring wail that cut through the night and packed the entire lot with noise.

Margaret was thrashing in the car, slamming her head and shoulder into the steering wheel. She’d hit the horn and kept it pinned.

She was calling for help—and she was doing it to spite me.

The horn dragged every set of eyes in the motel toward the parking lot.

The smoker flicked his cigarette away and went straight for his waistband. On the second floor, multiple doors opened at once. Two lights snapped on. Heads leaned out, searching.

They didn’t need to know who I was. Someone was causing trouble. That was enough reason to start shooting.

Someone on the first floor shouted, “Upstairs! Someone on the second floor!”

The first gunshot cracked from the edge of the lot. A round smacked into the second-floor railing and threw off metal chips.

I turned instantly and retreated along the dark side of the walkway. I didn’t push toward a stairwell and get trapped. Instead, I reached the nearest corner and dropped off the second floor, landing on the concrete beside the first-floor walkway.

My knees dipped. I caught myself with a hand, bled off the impact, then stuck to the wall and moved for my car.

The second shot chased me. Stone fragments peppered my back.

I rounded to the far side of the car and used the body as cover, staying low and steadying my breathing.

Footsteps closed fast—at least three of them—coming in from different angles. They opened fire immediately.

Rounds punched through the windows. Glass burst outward, scattering across the wet ground.

The doors took hit after hit. Metal thudded and rang. The passenger side darkened with blood.

Margaret jerked once inside the seat, then went rigid. A moment later she slumped, her head sagging to one side.

She died fast. Quiet.

I’d expected them to hesitate when they realized one of theirs was in the car. They didn’t. They kept shooting without a pause.

Margaret probably never imagined she’d be killed by her own people.

The gunfire paused for half a beat. Someone cursed, “Make sure he’s dead.”

I dropped flat and slid under the car.

The ground was icy from the rain. I pressed myself as low as possible and kept my breathing shallow.

Footsteps came closer.

Someone glanced into the car and saw Margaret’s body. “She’s done.”

A flashlight swept the edges of the car.

“Where is he?” someone muttered.

“If he vanished, he’s not dead.”

A third man moved to the front of the car. He didn’t lie down—just lowered his muzzle and aimed into the gap beneath the chassis.

He crouched, leaning in, the barrel almost scraping the pavement as he lined up a shot.

His boots stopped two steps from my face. The gun’s dark mouth stared straight into the space under the car.

The instant he started to fire, I shot my right hand out, clamped onto the barrel, and drove it down.

Bang.

The round hit the ground. Mud and water burst up.

He froze—and my other hand was already on his wrist.