Kael’s boots crunched on the gravel outside the burned-out warehouse, the acrid smell of smoke still clinging to the air. The burner phone’s distorted voice echoed in his head: We have your girl. You want her breathing, you’ll come alone. His fingers tightened around the phone, the plastic creaking under his grip, but he forced himself to stay still and think.

Marcus leaned against the sedan, his broad frame tense as he scanned the dark street. “We got nothing from that warehouse. What’s the play, Kael?”

Kael’s jaw clenched and his mind started racing. The team was battered—Silas patched up but pale, Rafe nursing a bruised rib, Elias silent but...